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Only the Governess. 


BY 

ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, 

AUTHOR OF "NBLLIE^S MEMORIES,*' NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS,*^ 
UNCLE MAX,” ETC. 




PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 






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CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I.— Dossie 7 

II. — “This is the House that Jack Built’^ 13 

III. — “Like the Birds of the Air^^ .... 20 

IV. — In the Editor’s Boom 29 

V.— Launcelot’s Prot^g^es 37 

VI.— “Dossie will not Forgive Me” .... 46 

VII.— Voices of Comfort 55 

VIII.— “Oh, my Little Child, my Little 

Child !” 62 

IX.— Bachel Thorpe 70 

X.— “Oxford Blue, if you Please” .... 78 

XI.— The Green Door in the Wall .... 86 

XII.— Madella 93 

XIII. — “I AM Jack’s Little Girl” 101 

XIV. — The Terrace at the Witchens .... 109 

XV. — “My Sonne’s Faire Wife Elizabeth” 118 

XVI.— Bee’s Saturdays 125 

XVII. — “Only Sybil’s Governess” 134 

XVIII.— A Cinderella Dance 143 

XIX.— “But there is Erica” 152 

XX.— “I DO NOT LIKE SAD THINGS” 159 

XXI. — “She is not Treating us Well” ... 169 

XXII.— “ I CAN HELP YOU, HuLDAH” 176 

XXIII.— Under Midnight Skies 185 

XXIV.— A Modern Bayard 193 

XXV.— Bachel’s Silence 202 

XXVI.— “No, NOT TOO Late, my Child” .... 209 

XXVII.— In the Studio 216 

XXVIII.— “Joan, come Back” 226 

XXIX.— Joan leaves the Witchens 235 

XXX.— Launcelot finds Fault with the 

Salad 244 

1* 5 


6 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXXI.— “ Then YOU ARE Engaged to . . 252 

XXXII.— “Oscar is a Sad Boy^' 260 

XXXIII.— “ Be a Brave Little Woman^^ .... 269 

XXXIV.— “Oh, yes; he comes Every Sunday^ ^ . 277 

XXXV.— “Joan— REALLY— Joan 285 

XXXVI.— Kachel’s Nemesis 294 

XXXVII.— “ Would you like to see Her?^^ ... 303 

XXXVIII.— Launcelot^s Picture 311 

XXXIX.— “ He is Hedley to me” 319 

XL.— Pauline 327 

XLI.— Five Years Afterwards 336 

XLIL— “This is not my Little Girl!” .... 344 

XLI II.— Building Jack^s House 352 

XLIV.— Dorothea 361 

XL V.— The Old Love and the New 369 

XLVI.— Launcelot^s Fiancee 378 

XLVII.— Jemmy Stokeses Errand 386 

XLVIII.— Launcelot finds that Sketch .... 393 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


CHAPTER I. 

DOSSIE. 

“A peck of March dust is worth a king’s ransom.”— OW 8ai/inif, 

It was only the other day that Launcelot Chudleigh came 
upon a half-finished portrait that he had painted of Dossie as 
a child. He was moving some large dusty portfolios that had 
long blocked up a corner of his studio, when the rotten strings 
of one gave way, and out tumbled a miscellaneous collection 
of hastily-drawn sketches, crude studies, sunny little bits of 
scenery, here and there a larger piece with the colors only 
half washed in, as though the brush had been flung away in 
despair ; groups of figures with no particular background, a 
gondola floating in a very hazy sea, an Italian peasant with a 
Madonna face and the inevitable large-eyed babe in her arms, 
a little flower-girl with a gay kerchief on her head and a 
string of brown beads round her neck. Launcelot turned 
them all over with a droll, humorous smile. He was amused, 
as middle-aged people often are when they come unexpect- 
edly on some toy or relic of their childhood. Ah, well ! he 
had been young too, like other people. He had attempted and 
had failed ; and, of course, his failures had seemed pathetic 
to him. Youth seldom finishes what it begins ; it is ready to 
set the world on fire with its hasty energy, then comes reality, 
disappointment, the plain prose of life. 

Launcelot was moralizing over his sketches when one flut- 
tered slowly to his feet. He uttered an exclamation as he 
picked it up and brushed the dust off it very tenderly. 

It was the portrait of a child, but not a pretty child. A 
pale, plaintive little face, shaded by soft yellowish hair ; the 
mouth was grave and unsmiling, the great wistful eyes looked 
at one rather sadly. “What does it mean?^^ they seemed to 
ask, an(} the droop of the lips seemed to demand the same 
question. Under it was written “ Dossie, aged ten.” 

Launcelot regarded it long and fixedly. “It is very like 
her still,” he murmured to himself. “ I have half a mind to 

7 


8 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


finish it now ; it would be a surprise to Dorothea. I wonder 
if she would recollect it, or Madella ; it is not so badly done 
after all.^^ And then he added, after a pause, “That must 
have been sketched the week before Jack went away, — poor 
old Jack ! how well I remember that time.^^ And then he 
sighed, and laying the picture on the table he restored the 
other sketches to the portfolio. 

It was a gray March afternoon, and the east wind, that 
abomination to all right-minded Englishmen, was playing a 
dreary symphony on the bare tree-tops of the limes and acacfes 
that grew in the small gardens of Wenvoe Road. 

Dossie hated the east wind ; she always regarded it as a per- 
sonal enemy. It was part of her chilaish creed to share all 
her father^s likes and dislikes, and her father had once said 
that the east wind always made him feel disagreeable and an- 
tagonistic to the whole world. He had gone out this very 
morning, with his coat buttoned up and shrugging his shoul- 
ders at the dismal prospect. “ What a detestable climate, he 
had muttered, as he watched the gray dust whirling down the 
white road. “ There, run in, Dossie, and tell Mrs. Slater that 
she must not let you go outside the door to-day ; and be a good 
girl and you shall help me paint this evening, and Jack 
Weston waved his hand and set off in the direction of the 
station. 

“Father always says that,^^ thought Dossie, as she closed 
the door and went back to the parlor and looked round the 
empty room a little wistfully. “ I wonder if I am a good girl 
after all Another long day to be spent all alone, — for of 
course Mrs. Slater would be too busy to talk to her, and Nancy 
would be hard at work, too. Nancy would be black-leading 
stoves, with rather a smutty face, or scrubbing floors, and 
Mrs. Slater, with floury elbows or hands whitened with hot 
soapsuds, would be kneading dough, or slamming oven-doors, 
or wringing out mysterious long wisps that resolved them- 
selves into still more mysterious garments. 

It would be, “ Go away. Miss Dosie dear, for the place ainT 
fit for you to stand upon,” from poor, Werworked, good- 
humored Nancy, and, “Run away, dearie, do, for I have not 
a minute hardly to draw a breath in,” from the equally tasked 
mistress of the house. 

There were other lodgers in No. 28 Wenvoe Road bedsides 
Mr. Weston and his little daughter. Another artist occupied 
the drawing-room floor, — a pallid young man with long hair 
and a seedy-brown velvet coat, who had lately become a 
social democrat^and spouted for the hour together at public 
meetings on the wrongs of the working classes. Jack Weston 
never held any intercourse with him ; he always wished him 
a very curt good-morning when they encountered each other 
on the stairs. He had a far more genial nod for the little 
gray-headed clerk on the upper floor, in spite of an execrable 


DOSSIE. 


9 


clarionet with which he tortured his neighbors into the small 
hours ; but then he always said Gregson was such a harmless, 
hard-working old fellow, and never gave his landlady any 
trouble, blacking his own boots, and only coming home to tea, 
and never complaining if Nancy forgot to fill his coal-scuttle 
on a cold winter^s night ; “ and he has had his troubles too, 
poor old man,^^ finished Jack, who had a soft heart. 

Dossie heaved a deep sigh as she looked round the empty 
room. It was a very pleasant room in summer-time when 
the folding doors were open, for the glass door led into a 
small garden, but just now it had a forlorn, untidy aspect. 
The breakfast things had not been cleared away from the 
round table, — Mrs. Slater and Nancy were too busy at present, 
— the only cheerful window was blocked by her father’s easel, 
the couch and half the chairs were littered with papers, books, 
and a heterogeneous mass of odds and ends ; the fire, which 
had been ruthlessly poked by an impatient hand, was now a 
bed of red cinders. Portfolios, palettes, color-boxes, musical 
instruments, coats and rugs were on every available article of 
furniture. Brown sparrows were chirping and picking up 
the crumbs that had been lavishly strewn for them, in spite 
of the green eyes of a small black kitten who watched them 
through the glass door ; actually one pert little fellow seemed 
to cock his head at her in a knowing way, as if he knew that 
she could not reach him. How was Dossie to get through her 
long solitary day? that was the question she was resolving 
with a puckered forehead and a very grave face, while the 
kitten patted the glass with soft velvety paws and the spar- 
rows flew away. There was the room to tidy, but there would 
be plenty of time for that before father came home ; it was no 
use learning any more lessons, as he had not heard the last, 
and she had finished the dusters Mrs. Slater had given her 
to hem, and of course she was much too busy to find her any 
more work. 

Never mind, she would get on with her writing and have 
quite a long bit to show her father in the evening. How he 
did laugh over it, to be sure. She had been rather hurt about 
his laughing at first, until he had explained to her very 
kindly that it was only the idea that amused him, and that 
really he was very much pleased with the whole thing. 

There was no empty space on the round table for her writ- 
ing materials, so Dossfe wedged herself in with some difficulty 
between the easel and the window : there was a nice window- 
seat there that opened like a box, a curious contrivance made 
by some previous lodger. Here Dossie kept her treasures, — 
her little work-box and lesson-books, and childish odds and 
ends, and from this dusty receptacle she triumphantly pro- 
duced a bundle of copy-books, tied together with blue ribbon. 

Five minutes more and Dossie had forgotten the world, the 
east wind, and the solitude she had so dreaded, in the proud 
delight of composition. The scratchy pen never paused as 


10 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


Mrs. Slater cleared the breakfast things and made up the fire 
** Poor little soul she said to herself as she bustled out of the 
room with the tray, “ she is as good as gold. Few children 
would amuse themselves as Miss Dossie does. Bless her little 
heart ! She is making believe to write some story, I expect. 
We should never get the ink off her hands if Nancy had not 
bought that pumice-stone.^^ 

But regardless of ink, smudges, erasures, and an occasicdial 
difficulty in spelling some desirable word, Dossie worked on, 
quite oblivious of time, only pausing to stroke the kitten 
which had crept into her lap and was purring contentedly in 
that warm receptacle. They ate their dinner together in 
gipsy fashion, for Mrs. Slater never troubled to spread a cloth 
for Dossie alone ; the little tray was placed on the window- 
seat, and by and by Nancy took it away and the copy-books 
were replaced. 

‘‘I am getting on beautifully, Nancy,^^ exclaimed Dossie, 
with a beaming smile, that lighted up her pale little face like 
a ray of sunshine. “ If I take great pains with it, perhaps 
father will have it printed some day.^^ 

“Of course he will. Miss Dosie,^^ returned Nancy, stoutly; 
“ it is quite as good as any real printed book. It almost made 
me cry, it did, the other night. And this flattering testimony 
to the intrinsic worth of her work was an immense consola- 
tion to Dossie. 

Nancy^s value as a critic might have been held somewhat 
cheaply by other people. Her childhood had been spent in a 
workhouse, a place where the intellectual activities seldom 
attain rapid growth ; neither was the position of maid-of-all- 
work — in a house where lodgers are kept — a perfectly fortui- 
tous one for the development of critical acumen, or the faculty 
of nice discrimination ; nevertheless Nancy ^s sympathy and 
honest faith were great sources of comfort to Dossie, who had 
no companions of her own age. 

Sometimes Dossie, staring wide awake into the darkness, 
would hear Nancy come up heavily to bed, and would beg 
her, in a plaintive voice, to sit with her a little. Nancy never 
refused ; however tired and sleepy she might be, she would sit 
on the hard uncomfortable box, with the tallow candle gut- 
tering in the tin candlestick, while Dossie, propped against 
her nest of pillow, read aloud her composition in a voice 
trembling with eagerness. “I call it beautiful. Miss Dosie,^^ 
Nancy would murmur, with difficulty suppressing a yawn ; 
sometimes her head would nod drowsily with cold and 
fatigue, but she always persisted that she had heard every 
word. 

Dossie returned to her labors with increased alacrity when 
Nancy had carried away the luncheon-tray. Her hands were 
very inky, and she had a red spot on either cheek, and per- 
haps she felt a little cramped and sleepy, but what did that 
all matter ? But one of those interruptions which Hale de- 


Dossm 


11 


scribes as a breach, or break, caused by the abrupt inter- 
vention of something foreign, was to happen to the small 
author, for at that moment a thin, dark young man, in a 
foreign-looking overcoat lined with fur, was standing before 
the door of No. 28 Wenvoe Road, waiting with an air of phil- 
osophic patience until Nancy had pulled down her sleeves 
and tied on a clean apron. 

‘‘Yes, sir,^^ observed Nancy, dropping a little wooden 
courtesy ; and as the gentleman turned round rather quickly, 
she added, “We ain^t got a ‘let^ up, Mrs. Slater says, because 
we are full at present.” 

“Oh,” — staring at her in rather a bewildered fashion, — “I 
am sure I am very glad to hear it. Your neighbors are not so 
lucky, for I saw several placards up ; but I have not come 
after lodgings. I believe a gentleman of the name of Weston 
lives here.” 

“ Yes, sir ; our parlor lodger, but he is not in. Miss Dosie— 
that is the little girl — is in.” 

“ Oh, very well, I will speak to her,” returned the stranger, 
with an air of relief ; and Nancy, without wasting any more 
words, thrust her head into the parlor and observed', “ Here is 
a gentleman. Miss Dosie, asking to see your papa,” and then 
promptly vanished. 

“ I beg your pardon for this intrusion,” began the young 
man quickly, and then he stopped in some confusion. Where 
was the little girl ? There was a small demon in the shape of 
a black kitten washing its face very busily on the hearth-rug, 
but no human being that he could see. The room had a des- 
olate, untidy aspect, and looked like a bachelor^s den. “ I 
suppose she is up-stairs,” he muttered, and then he went up 
to the easel. 

But the next moment he recoiled with a start and uttered 
an exclamation, for he had caught sight of a small head, 
covered with rough yellowish hair, lying on the window-seat 
in a very limp manner • it might have belonged to a good- 
sized doll, only it moved at the sound of his voice. “ I be- 
lieve I was asleep,” remarked Dossie, with dignity, as she 
moved her cramped limbs with difficulty and struggled to her 
feet. “ If you please, father is out, and I do not know who 
you are.” 

“I dare say not, my little girl,” returned the young man, 
shaking the small ink-stained hand very kindly, and drawing 
her out of the corner ; “but I dare say when we have had a 
little talk we shall be great friends. Do you know, I first saw 
your father when he was only a big school-boy ; he was seven- 
teen or eighteen, I forget which, but quite still a boy, and I 
was a little fellow about six or seven years younger.” 

One of Dossiers sudden smiles, that always took people by 
surprise, irradiated her small face as she heard this. “Oh, 
did you really know father then ? How you could help me. 
I never knew any one before who could tell me what he was 


12 


ONLY THE GOVERN ES;S. 


like as a boy ; of course you do not know what I mean by 
wanting to know all this, but if I tell you I am sure you 
would help me,^^ looking at him with a child's unerring in- 
stinct that he was to be trusted. 

“ To be sure I will help you," was the quick reply. “ May 
I take off my overcoat first?— thank you,— and as I knew 
your father all those years ago may t stir the fire? I am 
afraid I forgot what the maid called you ; Miss Dosie, was 
it?" 

“No, Dossie ; at least father always calls me Dossie, but 
Nancy will always say Dosie. I don't like it, it is such a 
sleepy name, but Nancy never can see the difference. Oh, 
what a beautiful blaze you have made ! Muff is quite pleased, 
listen how she purrs. Father almost pokes the fire to pieces, 
but it never is as bright as that. Please take that chair, Mr. 

Oh, now I come to think of it, I do not know your 

name either — how funny." 

“ I am afraid you will think it rather a difficult name, Miss 
Dossie : Launcelot Chudleigh, — rather a mouthful, eh, but 
people often call me Lance for brevity's sake. Now, I should 
very much like to know what that sliakeof the head means." 

“lam only thinking," was the oracular reply, as Dossie 
drew a stool to the hearth-rug. “I always shake my head 
when I think hard. When you spoke to me first, I thought 
you were young, very young, but I am not so sure now." 

Mr. Chudleigh laughed ; he had often been accused of this 
before. He was wonderfully young-looking for his age, which 
was in reality about two-and-thirty ; his face, without being 
exactly handsome, — a term that would not have suited it at 
all, — was so full of life and energy and repressed enthusiasm 
that it seemed to speak even when in repose; the mouth, 
hardly shaded by the small trim moustache, was beautifully 
formed and characteristic, and the gray ej^es looked very 
kindly at Dossie'. 

Children and animals never misunderstood Launcelot Chud- 
leigh, though a few of his equals in age called him a hare- 
brained enthusiast, and accused him of posing as an English 
Don Quixote. “ It is Chudleigh's rdle to be peculiar," pe( pie 
would say. “ T believe he does odd things to keep up his 
character for singularity, or because he thinks it artistic." “ I 
dare say, after all, his unselfishness is only a form of refined 
egotism, a subjective idealism," finished one cranky old phil- 
osopher, who always grumbled at Launcelot and secretly loved 
him. 

Launcelot was immensely amused by Dossie's artless speech. 
You can never deceive children, he moralized ; they had found 
out long ago that he was a boy at heart still, he was afraid he 
should never grow old and dignified like other people. Even 
when his head was gray, his heart would be young ; he knew 
this, he had always known it, and had railed on himself for 
not being more or a melancholy Jacques ; but a man must act 


“TmSf IS THE HOUSE THAT JACK BVILT:^ 18 


ap to his nature, and now this demure little thing, with her 
flaxen doU^s head, had found him out. So this was Jack^s 
child ; but she was not a bit like poor old Jack, and some one 
had told him her mother had been pretty ; well, she could not 
take after her mother either, unless she were a very washed- 
out edition. 

“ Well,^^ he observed briskly, as Dossie seemed a little absent 
and disinclined to speak, “ what is this important matter in 
which I am to help you and as though the question had 
recalled her wandering thoughts, the child ran to the window- 
seat and returned with her arms full of the copy-books. 

‘‘Oh, yes, you can help me,” she exclaimed, breathlessly. 
“Every now and then I have to stop because I do not know 
any more, and father is too lazy to tell me ; he is very lazy 
sometimes, and very often he only laughs and says ridiculous 
things or scribbles nonsense on the nice clean page ; you 
have no idea how naughty he is.” 

“ But what is it, — what are you writing?” asked Launcelot, 
in a kind, puzzled tone. “ My dear child, how you must have 
steeped yourself in ink !” regarding the stained fingers rather 
pitifully. 

“ Yes, but Nancy has got some pumice-stone : it all comes 
out, so father does not mind, and I bought the ink myself. 
Now, then, I am going to tell you : I am writing father^s life, 
because he is quite the best man in the world, and, of course, 
his life ought to be written.” 


CHAPTER II. 

“this is the house that jack BUIIiT.” 

‘^Thls is the man all tattered and torn who married the maiden all for- 
lorn,” etc.— ATurser^/ Rhyme, 

Launcelot dared not reply to this astounding piece of in- 
formation for fear he should burst out laughing, and by so 
doing offend mortally this whimsical little being, so he bit his 
lip hard to conceal a smile, and taking one of the copy-books 
out of Dossiers hand he bent over it with an air of profound 
interest. 

“Father’s History” was written in large childish round- 
hand, but underneath in bold masculine handwriting was 
inscribed, “The life of Jack Weston by his daughter, being a 
full and veracious account of the man, his morals, and com- 
plete history up to date, drawn from an infantile point of 
view. Motto for same, ‘ This is the house that Jack built.’ ” 

“I am sure it must be very interesting. Miss Dossie,” ob- 
served Launcelot, politely, but in rather a stifled voice ; he 

2 


14 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


was growing very red in the face in the effort to conceal his 
risibility — this was the most amusing thing ever heard : how 
delighted Madella would be to know it. “ Should you mind 
very much if I were to read a page or two ? If I am to help 
you by any choice reminiscences it will be necessary for me to 
judge a little of the style, unless,” regarding the many blots 
dubiously, “you were to read it to me yourself.” 

“ Oh, yes,” assented Dossie, joyously. “ I think that would 
be much better. I always read it to father and Nancy ; but,” 
regarding him with a puzzled expression, “ how will you ever 
knov which is mine and which is father's, for he has put such 
funny things? If I were to stop and cough,— iust ‘hem,' 
you know, — that would mean I am going to read father's.” 

“That will be a capital plan,” replied Launcelot, taking up 
the poker in desperation : his shoulders were heaving, but of 
course the big coal baffled him. “ What a nice man he was,” 
thought Dossie: “how delightful that he had known her 
father as a boy : he would have plenty of interesting things to 
tell her presently ;” and then she cleared her throat and began. 
Launcelot glanced at her over one shoulder, but he thought it 
impolitic to relinquish the poker. 

“‘I am writing father's life be(}ause he is quite the best 
man in the world, and so beautiful. I know every one thinks 
so, because when we are walking together people look at him 
so ; he is so big and strong, and holds up his head like a king, 
and he has a nice reddish-brown beard, curly rather. Mun 
likes it, for she tried to go to sleep in it once, only he put hei 
down very carefully, — father never hurts anything, — and 
called her an impudent little cat,'— oh, I see,” and here Dossie 
coughed gently — “ ‘ N.B. — Rather a negative virtue that, “ he 
never hurt anything.” When a man is his worst enemy he 
is sure to do mischief enough. How about the talent laid up 
in the napkin all these years? Never mind, my Dossie; 
believe in your father with the beautiful faith of childhood, 
“the best man in the world,” — what a stone launched by a 
tiny hand ; it hits hard somenow. 

“ ‘ Father and I have always lived together since mother 
died, sometimes in one place and sometimes in another. Now 
and then when we are very comfortable it makes me sorrjr 
when father says he has no money, and the lodgings are too 
expensive, and we must “move on.” He threatens some- 
times to take to a caravan, but that is only his joke. Father 
is such a jokey man. I cried about it once when we were in 
that pretty cottage on the common. I did love blackberry- 
ing in the lanes so, but father took me on his knee and 
looked ready to cry too, and begged me not to be sorry, because 
it made him so unhappy, and that he would give me all I 
wanted if he could only sell his pictures, but he was down on 
his luck, as usual ; and there were big tears in his eyes when 
he said this. 

“ ‘ So I never tell him I am sorry now, but I do hope that 


“7ms IS THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT^^ 


15 


we shall not leave here for a long time, for Mrs. Slater and 
Nancy are so kind, and on Sunday father always takes me 
into the park to see the deer. 

** * Father says when he was a baby his name was John, but 
his friends always call him Jack. He never will talk of the 
time when he was a boy ; he always says he was much the 
same as other boys, only a great pickle. He is dreadfully 
lazy, — the only thing that seems to interest him is the part 
about mother,^— dear me, hem ! ‘ N.B. — My poor pretty Pen ! 
Is it any wonder? A man unless he be an absolute brute, 
which I always maintain Jack Weston was not, is never in- 
different to his guardian angel. God knows how I loved the 
darling, and yet I failed to make her happy. She was too 
tender, too sensitive for this hard work-a-day world, — my little 
Dossie takes after her there, I fear. What an unlucky beggar 
I have been ! Two good women to love me, and yet here I 
am a threadbare, lonely man, a painter of bad pictures, with 
hardly a friend in the world except a stray Bohemian, and a 
little helpless female child for whose future I am responsible.^ 
Father was very sad when he wrote that,” finished Dossie ; 

he could not joke a bit : he just put his head on his hands 
and groaned, but when I asked him what was the matter he 
would not answer. 

‘ Father was very young when he first saw mother. He 
says he had quarrelled with his friends, and was sketching in 
a pretty village in one of the midland counties. He lodged at 
the inn, and was very happy and comfortable. 

“ ‘ It was a sweet little village, with cottages all covered 
with roses and all sorts of climbing plants, and just outside 
the village near the church was a queer old red-brick house, 
with a beautiful lawn and a cedar-tree. It was a girls^ school, 
and kept by two funny old ladies, I forget their names. 

** ‘ Father used to meet the girls walking two-and-two on a 
summer^s evening ; some of them would notice him and nudge 
each other as they passed, but there was one young lady in 
gray, who walked last, who was the quietest and prettiest of 
them all. 

Father called her for a long time ‘‘his little Quaker 
friend,” because she was so demure-looking, and always wore 
such sober colors ; but when he came to look at her more 
closely he said she reminded him of a little pale snowdrop, 
there was something so fresh and pure about her : these are 
father’s own words. 

“ ‘ He got to know the clergyman presently, and his wife 
told father that the name of his little Quaker friend was Pene- 
lope Martin, that she was an orphan, and very friendless and 
p^oor, and that she was the junior English governess at the 
Cedars. “But we are all very fond of her, Mr. Weston,” she 
added, “for Miss Martin is so good and amiable, and we are 
delighted to have her with us on half-holidays.” ’ ” Here 
Dossie paused to cough, and Launcelot, who had long ago 


16 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


laid down the poker, stole another glance at her from undei 
his hand. Even Dossie hardly knew the deep interest with 
which her silent auditor followed every word, especially the 
annotations. 

‘‘ ‘ How well I remember those dear old vicarage days. Mrs. 
Moreland was a good friend to us both while she lived ; she 
was a motherly soul, and gave Pen good counsel. 

‘ Those half-holidays were my red-letter days. What de- 
licious afternoons we spent in the old garden, making belief 
to play with the children ; what strolls in the dewy lanes to 
hunt for glowworms ; what whispered conversations in the 
moonlight when I took Pen home. No man ever had a 
prettier little sweetheart, and yet her shyness gave me trouble 
enough, — sometimes she would hardly look at me, and yet all 
her ways were so dainty, so bewitching. She told me after- 
wards she was afraid to let herself love me, because she did 
not believe in happiness coming to her. Her life had been 
hard, and perhaps she did not better it by marrying Jack 
Weston. 

‘‘ ^ Father says the old schoolmistress tried to prevent her 
marrying him, but he got his way in the end. They were 
very poor, for .mother had only a five-pound note in her 
pocket, and father had only his pictures, but neither of them 
minded it at first. ^ — Oh dear, here comes father again ! he 
never was lazy about mother. 

“ ‘ Pen did not mind ; I can take my oath of that. She was 
as happy as a child let out of school, and it was the prettiest 
sight in the world to see her playing at housekeeping. 

“ ‘The rooms were never untidy then. She had a knack of 
making everything look its best. There were always fiowers ; 
Pen loved fiowers. Sometimes I would find the mantelpiece 
wreathed with bright-colored leaves. She could not paint a 
bit, but yet all her tastes were artistic. I never saw her look 
shabby all those years, and yet we were dreadfully poor, and 
I know she seldom bought a new dress. I cannot tell how 
she managed it, but she wore herself out ; poor Pen! 

“ ‘ I wish I were like mother, but father says I shall never 
be half so good and pretty. My little brothers, Johnnie and 
Willie, were like her, only they died. Willie was such a fair, 
darling baby, and mother doted on him. He died after the 
whooping-cough, and father says poor mother never got over 
his loss, she tired herself so with nursing him ; and then I 
was born, and somehow she got weaker and weaker, until she 
was too tired to live any longer^ hem 

“ ‘ Right, my little Dossie ; she just faded away, poor Pen I 
And yet she was loath to* leave me and the child. She wag 
always telling me how happy I had made her, and yet ail the 
time I knew how the debts and worries had fretted her. 
There was never money for anything ; the pictures hung on 
hand. I believe in my heart that, after all, she was not sorry 
to lie down with the boys. She was always grieving for them, 


^^THIS IS THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT>* 


17 


Willie especially. Often and often I have found her crying, 
only she would not tell me the reason. She was quiet and 
reserved to the last, poor Pen ! but I knew when I lifted her 
and felt how light and thin she was, that she was just wasting 
away, and that she would not be long with us.^ That is all I 
care to read,^^ finished Dossie, candidly, “but I am getting on as 
fast as I can. Father has promised me a lot of anecdotes, only 
I am obliged to wait for them. I have written a good deal 
more to-day, only I have smudged the words so that I can^t 
read them. I think I am a little tired,” she ended, with a sigh. 

“Of course you are tired, you poor little thing,” returned 
Launcelot, in the voice that always won children's hearts. 
He was troubled to see the utter want of color in the child^s 
face, and how drooping and weary she looked. “ Now what 
shall we do until father comes home? Have you a ball or a 
skipping-rope ? I am very partial to a top myself ; but then 
you see I am only a big boy. Little girls like dolls, do they 
not ?” 

“ Mine is broken,” returned Dossie, in rather a lachrymose 
manner. “ I was dreadfully sorry when she died, but father 
gave her a grand funeral, and then he said I was getting too 
old for such babyish things. I should like to play with you 
very much, for you are such a nice man, and I am sure father 
will think so; but it is getting dark, and I have to tidy the 
room before Nancy brings in the tea-things.” 

“All right,” returned Launcelot. “I am a handy fellow 
for making things ship-shape. Supposing we go to work to- 
gether. Now, Miss Dossie ! Why should not these coats find 
a place on the pegs outside ? And there is room for the rugs 
too.” And, acting on his words, Launcelot dashed out of 
the room with an armful of heterogeneous wraps, and on his 
return commenced clearing the chairs and couch, while 
Dossie, with a minute and very dirty duster in her hand, 
followed him about meekly. 

“Now then,” observed Launcelot, cheerily, when his labors 
were over, “ don^t you think you might try to get rid of these 
ink-stains?” and Dossie nodded and vanished. 

“After all, she is an interesting little thing,” was Launce- 
lot^s mental comment when he was left alone ; “ but then all 
children interest me ; they are the very salt of the earth, — 
but she is plain, very plain. I am sure Madella would say so, 
—she thinks so much of good looks, — but she would be very 
kind to her. Madella has the best heart in the world. Poor 
old Jack, he little knows I have been behind the scenes. I 
declare that account w^as very touching. The little monkey 
has a good memory,” and then he took out a letter from his 
pocket, and began reading it with a knitted brow. “ My dear 
Launcelot,” it said, “I wonder if you will recognize this 
handwriting, and whether you ever remember the existence 
of a certain individual called Jack Weston. 

“ Do you ever recall your old schooldays, and how unmerci- 
b 2 * 


18 ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 

fully you used to chaff Uncle Jack? You were a clever little 
chap then, and had far more brains in your curly head than 
fell to my share. 

“But you will be saying to yourself, ‘Why is the fellow 
writing to me after a silence of fourteen years Well, I will 
tell you. 

“ I was walking down Pall Mall with a man I knew the 
other day, when he suddenly said, ‘There goes that queer 
fellow, Chudleigh. Hallam always calls him the Wandering 
Jew. He is always going to and fro on the earth, like some 
one who shall be nameless,^ and then you passed, and actu- 
ally looked me in the face, — cut your uncle — confound you ! 
‘Ah, you mean Launcelot Chudleigh, I see,^ I returned, 
quietly ; ‘ well, he is a sort of nephew of mine, — at least my 
sister married his father when he was a small boy, but I can- 
not answer for our relationship. We have not met for al- 
most fourteen years, and my beard is a capital disguise.^ 

“ Well, do you know, I could not get you out of my head. 
I had the greatest wish to run after you and ask you to shake 
hands ; then I thought I would question Greene, and when I 
had pumped him sufficiently, I made up my mind to write to 
you. VoUa tout 

“Now, if you are not too proud to come and see a fellow 
who is down on his luck, and who has not a friend in the 
world, you will find me at 28 Wenvoe Road, Richmond. 

“ Yours truly, 

“Jack Weston.^^ 

Launcelot was just replacing the letter in the envelop when 
he heard a latch-key turning in the hall door, and Dossiers 
shrill little voice on the staircase. 

“ Oh, father, dear, how late you are ; has the east wind been 
very bad 

“Pretty bad, my pet. At least, I am as cross as possible. 
Well, what is it, Dossie? You look as though you were going 
to eat me up.^^ 

“ Oh, father, such a surprise ! You have no idea what you 
will find in the parlor. 

“Fee-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman, con 
tinned the same cheery voice, and the next moment a very 
big man in an ulster entered the room. 

“An apt quotation,” observed Launcelot, stepping forward 
in his alert way. “ How do you do. Uncle Jack ?” 

“Launcelot, old fellow !” And then the two men grasped 
hands, and t^ face of the elder man became strangely pale 
for a moment. 

“It is good of you to come,” he said, rather gruffly, as 
though unwilling to show emotion. “ I am very much sur- 
prised ; I hardly expected it. You are not so much changed, 
Launcelot, — I should know you anywhere.” 

“I cannot return the compliment,” was the reply, and 


^^THIS IS THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.^* 


19 


Launcelot looked at him attentively. Dossie was right, he 
thought. Jack Weston was certainly a striking-looking man. 
He was powerfully made, only his broad shoulders had a 
slight stoop in them. He was very handsome, too, and the 
golden-brown beard gave him an air of dignity which the 
careless good nature which was his normal expression hardly 
bore out. When a man is his worst enemy, Launcelot said 
to himself (for Jack’s annotations had stamped themselves on 
his memory) ; every now and then he would repeat a phrase 
with parrot- like gli'bness. 

Launcelot’s vivacity and easy boyish manners often de- 
ceived people. They had no idea of the quiet penetration 
that underlaid his buoyancy. He had an extraordinary power 
of reading character rightly. He seemed to grasp instinct- 
ively the salient points ; mannerisms, contradictions, minor 
difficulties never long baffied him. He always worked his 
way to the heart of the man. Now and then he made 
mistakes, and gave people credit for virtues they never pos- 
sessed, but he never judged them at their worst. 

Launcelot’s quick eyes had noticed several things during 
that first quarter of an hour, during which he and Jack 
exchanged commonplaces. Nancy was laying the tea-table, 
and Dossie was helping her ; the child seemed to have a pas- 
sion for service, — and by mutual consent both men confined 
themselves to generalities, the weather, politics, and the dul- 
ness in trade. 

Launcelot found plenty to say on all these subjects, for he 
was a ready talker and rarely cared to hold his tongue long ; 
but he entered several items on the tablets of his memory, to 
be pondered over in quiet. 

Item number one : Why was Jack’s coat so shabby ? Laun- 
celot objected on principle to a shabby coat. There must be 
“something rotten in the state of Denmark” when a man 
allows his clothes to tell a tale of ill success. 

Item number two : Why did his hand tremble as he took up 
the tea-caddy ? 

Item number three: Why had his placid good-tempered 
looking face turned so pale when they had first met? Strong 
men do not ordinarily change color ; they were such complete 
strangers to each other that Launcelot, while he had antici- 
pated a hearty welcome, was hardly prepared for any show of 
emotion, but — perhaps the poor beggar had gone through so 
much trouble. 

They talked shop all the tea-time,— at least that was how 
Jack expressed it. Launcelot spoke of his studio which he had 
built at the Witchens. “ Oh, oh, you still live at the Witch- 
ens?” observed Jack, evidently feeling his way a little. 

“ Yes, my father bought it, it is mine now ; it is rather a 
big house, but we manage to fill it. Madella and the girls are 
at Mentone now.” 

“ Who ? oh, I know. My sister Della,” speaking with some 


20 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


Blight embarrassment; “so you keep to your old childish 
name for your stepmother?” 

“Yes, it just suits her ; do you remember how my father 
wanted me to call her mother or mamma, and I refused, be- 
cause I said Jack always called her Della ; we came to a com- 
promise at last, and I coined the word Madella ; it was very 
wise of her to tell me how much she liked it, for I was in- 
clined to be a rebel.” 

“Yes, I remember;” but Jack added hastily, as Dossie-s 
eyes grew large and curious, “Are your pictures successful?” 
and Launcelot was quick to take the hint. 

“ Oh, as to that, I do not care to sell my pictures, but people 
do buy them.- I have just come back from Rome ; I was in 
the Austrian Tyrol all the summer, but the boys wanted me. 
By the bye, do you know Singleton expects to make a hit this 
season? he has painted a very powerful picture. The Ten Vir- 
gins.” And here followed a rapid discussion on the merits 
and demerits of several artists and their work, to which Dossie 
listened with rapt attention. She made no attempt to inter- 
rupt them, only her little hand stole into her father^s and 
Launcelot noticed how he patted it softly from time to time, 
as though he never forgot her presence. 

By and by he turned to her, and asked her gently if it were 
not time for Nancy to put her to bed. 

Dossiers face fell. “Only just time, father, and I am not a 
bit sleepy ; but if you wish me to go—” 

“ I do wish it, darling ; you see this gentleman and I have 
a great deal to talk about, and — ” but Dossie needed no more ; 
evidently her father’s wish was law to her. She rose at once, 
and held up her face to be kissed, then she went round to 
Launcelot and gave him her hand very gravely. 

“ Good-night, Miss Dossie ; I hope we shall see a great deal 
of each other in future,” and Dossiers sad little face brightened 
at the kind words, as she lifted the kitten and stole noiselessly 
out of the room. But for several minutes after she had closed 
the door, the silence was still unbroken between the two men. 


CHAPTER III. 

“ LIKE THE BIRDS OF THE AIR.” 

- “Nothing Is ever lost, while much is always gained, by attending to 
the good of a thing before its evil.”— Grindon. 

“There may be-epics in men’s brains, just as there are oaks in acorns, 
but the tree and the book must come out before we measure them.”— 
Emerson. 

There is something oppressive in this sort of silence ; in 
one sense it is far more eloquent than speech, one dread-? to 
utter the first word. To Jack Weston the very air seemed 


^^LIKE THE BIRDS OF THE AIR.'^ 


21 


surcharged with suppressed meaning, with mysterious possi- 
biiities. An uneasy conviction that the man he had sum- 
moned to his help out of sheer longing for human sympathy 
might perchance sit in judgment upon him, made him almost 
repent of his hasty impulse. Why had he invoked these 
ghosts of his dead youth ? why had he tried to bridge over the 
chasm that severed his earlier and later life? Jack^s broad 
shoulders were still more bent as he asked himself these ques- 
tions ; he averted his eyes rather moodily from his silent com- 
panion. It was Launcelot who spoke first, but his few words 
broke through the barrier at once. 

“Tell me all about it, Jack,^^ he said, very quietly. “You 
have been fourteen years sending for me, but you see I came 
at once.^^ 

“I do not know what there is to tell,^^ replied the other, 
slowly. “I have been a fool and made a mess of my life; 
many men have done the same. I am not the only reprobate 
in the world, finished Jack, with a dismal smile. 

“I dare say you are right,^^ was the cool response, “but we 
may as well avoid generalities for the present. I do not know 
how you feel about things, but I have always found too much 
difiiculty in keeping myself in order to meddle about other 
folks^ business. No doubt there are plenty of fools in the 
world, some of them very pleasant fellows, but when a man 
owns himself to be beaten by ill-luck, and confesses at the 
same time that he has not a single friend, I am inclined to 
think that there must be more than foolishness at the bottom.” 

“Of course I have laid myself open to this,” was Jack^s 
gloomy answer, and his good-natured face grew heavy and 
forbidding. “ I was a fool, after all, to send for you.” 

“ My dear fellow, a hundred times no ! There was method 
in your madness then. Now listen. I don^t mean to be hard 
upon you, but I want you to be frank with me ; your little 
Dossie has taken me behind the scenes, and I know you have 
had your blessings like other men. I wish I had seen your 
wife. Jack ; she must have been a good woman : she has taken 
my fancy, and,” added Launcelot, with a curious smile, “1 
was always fastidious about women.” 

“ Pen was the dearest and the sweetest wife that a man 
could have,” burst out Jack, with a sort of break in his voice ; 
“ she was a heroine in her little way. If things were hard, 
she never complained. She was a bit of a Puritan, was Pen, 
but somehow I liked it in her : her religion made her happy. 
When I came home discouraged and sore-hearted, with empty 
pockety she would just smile in my face, and say, ‘ Never 
mind, Jack, we have our crumbs too to-day like the birds of 
the air, and we are not to fret about to-morrow.^ My blessed 
Pen ! it was the boy^s death broke her down : she was never 
the same woman after that.” 

“I wonder — ” began Launcelot, and then he paused, as 
though doubtful how to go on. 


22 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


“You wonder she did not heal the breach. Well, I never 
gave her the chance. She knew I had a sister, and that was 
all. I never spoke to her of Della. 

“ What a grievous mistake 

“ Oh, no doubt. I was sowing a plentiful crop just then. I 
do not mind owning to you now that I was an egregious ass. 
Poor Della had been very good to me. She had paid my 
debts again and again, but when she married your father 
things were very different ; she let me see very plainly then 
that she was ashamed of having such a scapegrace for a 
brother. 

“You wrong Madella there,^^ was the warm answer “ no 
one can accuse her of want of generosity. I have never heard 
her speak a hard word of you, though I suppose your con- 
science tells you that you have behaved most unkindly to her. 
It is always ‘ Poor Jack, I wonder what has become of him ? 
I hope his wife is good to him : it is hard not to know if he 
have any children,^ and so on. No, I will not have Madella 
blamed.” 

“ I suppose you will allow that she had not a will of her 
own after she married Chudleigh, and I suppose you will 
admit that your father ruled us both with a rod of iron.” 

“ Humph,” in a dubious tone. “I am hardly prepared to 
admit even as much as that. As long as he lived, Madella was 
the happiest woman in the world. They exactly suited each 
other ; perhaps he was rather strict, even with his own boys, 
but then you see he held old-fashioned opinions on the rights 
of parents. He was not sufficiently enlightened to hold the 
doctrine of obedience to children. He was a disciplinarian, 
and liked to rule his own household.” 

Jack smiled grimly. “ Of course I cannot expect you to side 
with me against your own father, but you were a kind little 
champion in those days, so I will forgive your sarcasm. Of 
course I knew I was an apple of discord, and that poor Della 
would have been happier without me. I never could be civil 
to Chudleigh. I am afraid I hated him. It seemed to me a 
mean thing to live under a man^s roof and eat at his table, 
and all the time be hostile to him. so when things became 
worse I just broke away from it all.” 

“I know you behaved like a madman.” 

“Freedom seemed glorious to me then,” went on Jack, 
without heeding this. “I believe if I had only kept single 
and stuck to my work, I should have done well enough ; but 
I met Pen, and then it was all up with me.” 

“Yes, and it was that imprudent marriage that incensed 
father,” returiied Launcelot. “ I remember, as though it were 
yesterday, his coming into the morning-room when I was read- 
ing ‘ Dombey and Son^ to Madella. ‘I have had a letter from 
Walter Moreland, an old schoolfellow of mine,^ he began ; ‘ do 
you know what that fool of a brother of yours has done now ? 
He has actually married,— married without a penny in his 


^^LIKE THE BIRDS OF THE AIR.*^ 


28 


pocket : a beggarly little governess too. Now, Della, listen to 
me, I wash my hands of that boy for ever. He is utterly in- 
corrigible and irreclaimable. Not one farthing of my money 
shall he touch from this day forth and, though Madella 
cried and begged him to let her write to you once, he would 
not give way.” 

“And yet you say he was not hard?” 

“ No, I think he had a right to be displeased. No man has 
a right to marry and bring children into the world unless he 
can see his way clearly to make provision for them. You 
could not expect my father to support your family.” 

“ I never asked him for a penny, or Della either,” returned 
Jack, angrily. “ I have far too much pride to beg help from 
any man. You think because I have made a mess of my life, 
and have done wrong things, that I have not tried to do better. 
Pen knows how hard I worked, she never blamed me for 
idleness. Of course we were foolish to marry so young. Pen 
was a mere child, and I was headstrong and inexperienced. 
Well, we have ‘ dree^d our weird, ^ and seen evil days, but I 
am not sure if it all came over again that I should not do ex- 
actly the same thing. Pen and I were happy in spite of it all ; 
we were too fond of each other to be miserable. She always 
believed in my cleverness. Why, bless you, if any one had 
told Pen my pictures were mere daubs and not worth their 
frames, she would have been ready to shut the door in his 
face. Dossie takes after her mother in that ‘ finished Jack 
she actually believes in me too.” 

Launcelot regarded him with a pitying look. Jack^s frank- 
ness touched him ; he could understand that women — even 
good women — might find him lovable, and yet he was a rep- 
robate ; he must have deteriorated since his wife^s death. 
No doubt he had kept straight for Pen^s sake, but he must 
find out something more even at the risk of offending him. 

“Look here, old man,” he exclaimed, suddenly, “we are 
becoming quite confidential, talking in quite a brotherly style. 
Now I like that ; I am always glad when a' fellow speaks out 
without any humbug, it makes me think more of him, — in- 
deed it does, — and we need not always be Hinging a man^s 
follies in his face ; that sort of thing is too aggravating. What 
I want to know now is, how do you and Dossie live? If your 
pictures are bad, how do they sell ? Have you any plan for 
the future?” 

“ Do you smoke?” was the unexpected answer to this. “ 1 
am fond of a pipe myself ; it soothes the nerves. I could not 
liro without my pipe. If you will excuse me I will ring for 
some water ; a little whiskey would not come amiss.” 

“Not for me,” returned Launcelot, decidedly. “I never 
take spirits ; indeed, I am no smoker, but I will help myself 
to a cigarette to keep you company. You will think I am a 
queer sort of fellow,” he continued, “but I have a horror of 
Buch stimulants. I have no objection to good claret or hock 


24 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


or any of those light wines that one takes with one’s meals 
but there I draw the line.” 

Jack was placing the whiskey-bottle on the table. He shook 
his head at this. 

‘‘Pen never allowed this sort of thing either; poor little 
girl, I should have shocked her dreadfully. But it has become 
a necessity to me now. Why, my dear fellow,” rather irri- 
tably, “how do you suppose "l should get through the long 
e's enings, when Dossie is in bed and I have only my thoughts 
to keep me company, if I did not banish the ghosts somehow’ ? 
I hope I do not often take too much,” finished Jack, humbly. 
“ I don’t wish to disgrace myself, for Dossie’s sake, but one 
must get rid of the blue devils.” 

“You will never get rid of them in that way. Why not 
content yourself with a pipe to-night? You are not alone. 
Look here. I know it is no good preaching to people, and I 
don’t want you to think me strait-laced and that sort of thing, 
but if you sit here evening after evening trying to forget your 
trouble by drowning it in whiskey-and-water, I say that you 
are simply destroying yourself, soul and body. Give it up, 
my dear fellow, before the habit gets too strong and masters 
you.” 

“Pshaw ! I am no worse than hundreds of other men. It 
does not follow that because I do not pretend to be a saint I 
am the other thing. A glass of good wholesome stuff like 
this does no harm in the long run.” 

“Mere sophistry,” returned Launcelot, sadly. “You can- 
not drown trouble of mind in one glass. Are you sure you 
keep an exact account ? Do you always measure accurately ? 
Does not appetite and capacity grow with indulgence? Give 
it up. Jack, for God’s sake !” 

“Let us change the subject,” was the impatient answer. 
“No one can call me a bad-natured fellow, but I am a bit 
cranky on some points, and apt to turn rusty. Don’t let us 
argue at our first meeting. I won’t take a second glass to- 
night, I vow. It does me good to see you sitting there. I 
thought perhaps you would take fright at my shabby coat, 
and cut your visit short.” 

“ No indeed,” returned Launcelot, cheerfully. “ I am wait- 
ing until you see fit to answer my questions. How do you 
and Dossie live? Excuse my plain speaking, but I never 
could beat about the bush.” 

“No, you were always an impudent little beggar. By the 
bye, how do you continue to look so young? There are only 
a few years between us, and already there are gray hairs in 
my head.” ^ 

“I take life easily ; that is all. Now, Jack, I insist on an 
answer.” 

“ All right ; you shall have it. What do you want to know 
—how do I and Dossie live ? Well, very much as Pen said— 
‘like the birds of the air.’ Sometimes there are plenty of 


^^LIKE THE BIRDS OF THE AIR:' 


25 


crumbs, and then we have a good time ; and sometimes the 
dealers, confound them ! tell me that they are sick of my pic- 
tures, that they hang on hand, that the subject is stale, or 
the market is overstocked, and then we have to do as well as 
we can.^^ 

trust the latter is not your position at the present mo- 
men t,^^ but as Launcelot threw out this feeler he was taken 
aback to see Jack draw himself up with an air of dignity, 
while an embarrassed flush crossed his face. 

“Excuse me, but I would rather not answer that question.” 

“ All right,” was the cheerful response, “ I retract it ; con- 
sider it unsaid. I suppose you are still fond of your work? 
You would rather be an artist than anything else ?” 

“ Upon ruy word, I do not know. I am so sick of the whole 
thing that I should not care if I never painted another pic- 
ture ; one grows so weary of failures. When I was in the 
calf stage I thought myself a sort of sucking Salvator Rosa. 
I fancied Jack Weston would do a thing or two that would 
set the Thames on Are ; now I paint old women and little bits 
of landscape for bread and cheese, and sometimes we have to 
go without the cheese.” 

“The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts,” returned 
Launcelot, a little dreamily. “Depend upon it, old fellow, 
the calf stage, as you call it, is far the happiest time in one^s 
life. Salvator Rosa ! Why, at eighteen I had an ambition 
that landed me at the footstool of that Prince of Titans, 
Michael Angelo. Ah ! * there were giants in those days,^ Jack. 
I still worship my old ideals, and burn incense before their 
shrines ; but the difference is that now I can content myself 
with reverence and admiration ; they are my masters, my 
teachers, and I dabble with a few colors, like a child, at their 
feet, make a study or two, and call myself an artist.” 

Jack suddenly burst out laughing. 

“ Do you remember your picture of Satan, and how one of 
the servants nearly went into a flt when she came upon it 
suddenly, and nurse scolded her for being such a gaby ? ‘ It 
is nothing but an ugly-faced sweep, you silly girl,^ she said, 
‘ and Mr. Launcelot ought to be ashamed to waste his time 
and good paints over such a patchy concern.^ Poor Launcelot, 
I can see your face now.” 

Launcelot smiled grimly. I am afraid I felt pretty bad, 
and there you were crowing over my discomfiture. Fancy 
my terribly beautiful Lucifer turned into a sweep. Ah, one’s 
dreams die hard. I remember I would not touch my brush 
for a month after nurse’s unlucky remark.” 

“What a droll fellow you were, Launcelot,” and thereupon 
followed one reminiscence after another ; boyish adventures 
which generally ended disastrously for Jack, scrapes out of 
which Launcelot had helped him, fishing and sketching ex- 
cursions that they had enjoyed together ; and as they talked, 
Jack’s countenance cleared and grew animated, and the lines 
71 3 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


>11 his forehead seemed to smooth themselves out. By and by 
he began to question Launcelot in his turn. 

“So you are all at the Witchens? I wonder you have not 
married.” 

“So do I,” was the brisk answer, “but I have never 
managed to fall properly in love. I did propose to one young 
lady but she would not have me. She said I bored her so 
with philanthropy, and that she never knew what I was 
talking about. She was a lovely creature ; but when I took 
matters into consideration afterwards I was really quite 
glad that she had said No. I told her so afterwards, and 
thanked her for saving us both from a great mistake. * I was 
too hasty about it altogether,’ I continued, ‘ I did not properly 
balance things ; you are quite right, we should both have been 
miserable.’ Would you believe it, she did not seem pleased at 
that, either ; she muttered something about my being a very 
singular man. I painted her afterwards, we became quite 
good friends, and when she married I was her husband’s best 
man.” 

“ Pshaw ! you could not have cared for the girl a bit.” 

“ I don’t know. I was hard hit for a few days ; she really 
was a beautiful creature, only shallow. That is why I have 
never married. The girls I fancied were all handsome, but 
they all disappointed me. I nearly proposed to another, only 
I heard her scolding her maid for dropping some wax on a 
silk dress, and I did not admire the tone and style. The 
English was perfect, but somehow it reminded me of an old 
Irishwoman 1 had heard in Whitechapel — it was the tone. 
ISo much depends on the tone,” finished Launcelot, senten- 
tiously. 

“Still, a fellow like you, with plenty of money and no en- 
cumbrance, ought to be able to find a good wife without 
much trouble. Why, look at me, not a penny in my pocket, 
and yet I got Pen.” 

“Yes, but you were such a good-looking be^ar ; and a 
woman like your Pen never crossed my patli. Some of the 
girls made love to me, and I did not like that, and if my fancy 
turned on one in particular, she was sure to be engaged ; in 
fact, like Dick Swiveller of immortal memory, I never loved 
a dear gazelle, but she was sure to marry the market gar- 
dener and with these words he rose. 

“ Oh, you are not going?” exclaimed Jack, blankly. “ And 
you have not told me a word about the kids?” but Launcelot 
did not resume his seat ; he took out his watch and looked at 
it, and then stood on the rug warming himself as he spoke. 

“Kids? There are only two now, Sybil and Freckles, — 
Fred, I mean : the others are all grown up. Why, Geoffrey 
has left Oxford, and is reading for the bar, and Bernard is at 
Magdalene ; as for the girls, Beatrix and Pauline, they are 
both out, as they call it. Bee is very pretty, rather in Ma- 
della’s style, only not so soft-looking ; Pauline is a nice sen* 


*^LIKE THE BIRDS OF THE AIR.*^ 


27 


Bible girl. No encumbrances, — I like that, when I have a 
family of girls and boys to look after. There, time is up ; I 
must be off or I shall lose the last train. Good-night, old 
fellow. I will see you again in a few days, and we will nave 
another talk ; I shall find you here ?” interrogatively. 

“Yes, I think so, but do not make it long before you come,^^ 
replied Jack, wringing his hand. Launcelot bore the pain 
without wincing, but his face was very grave as he went down 
the steps. 

“He would not speak out, and it seemed hardly right to 
press him. I had to feel my way. Poor old Jack, I like him, 
1 always liked him, but he wants ballast ; he is very weak. 
He means no harm, but he is slipping down the hill fast. It 
is a dangerous sort of thing to shut oneself up every night 
with a pipe and whiskey-and-water, especially if one is 
haunted by a dead face that is dearer than any living one, and 
perhaps debts and duns in the background. It takes a great 
rnany glasses to drown that sort of thing. No, no, we must 
put a stop to this. Poor little Dossie, he dotes on her ; but 
she is terribly neglected. What would Madella have said to 
her frock? He is not the man to be trusted with a child, he 
wants looking after himself. If I could only get him away 
and ask Madella to take Dossie. Why, she would be a nice 
companion to Sybil. Miss Rossiter could look after them 
both, — really a brilliant idea, but will he let me have her? 
will he listen to reason? will he be enable of the sacrifice? 
Miss Rossiter would be good to her, I know ; she is a kind- 
hearted creature, — by the bye, how infatuated they all are 
about her, even Pauline. I don't mind owning I was a bit 
fascinated myself ; she is very taking. Madella looks vexed 
when I tell her she is far too handsome for a governess ; she 
will not allow she is so very handsome. Well, I wisii 1 had 
them all safely back. It is rather slow at present for Geoff 
and myself." And so Launcelot's thoughts ran on, but they 
always returned to one point : What could he do to benefit 
poor Jack Weston ? 

He would have been easier in his mind if he could have 
looked into the parlor he had just left. Jack smoked out his 
pipe, then he knocked out the ashes, and locked up the un- 
touclied whiskey. 

“Just this once to please him," he muttered, “ and I want a 
steady head for to-morrow. I will go up to Dossie instead ; I 
have hardly spoken to her to-night." 

Dossie slept in a little room next to her father's. As he 
softly opened the door she started up in bed with an excla- 
mation of delight. A pale misty moonlight crept through 
the uncurtained window, and lit up faintly the little pale face 
and long fair hair. 

“ How is it you are awake, my darling? Do you know it is 
past eleven?" 

“Yes, but I was thinking, and it is so cold," shivering as 


28 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


she crept into her father^s arms. “Has that nice man gone? 
He is such a nice man, father. He has got such a kind voice, 
and his eyes laugh so, and he looks so happy, much happier 
than other people. 

“ Oh, he was always like that. Yes, he is a good fellow. 1 
am glad to have seen him again ; and now, Dossie, you must 
go to sleep. Have you prayed for poor father?” 

“Oh, yes ; I never miss a good long prayer for you, and a 
short one for mother and Johnnie and Willie,— just God bless 
them that they may not feel forgotten or neglected ; there is 
no harm in that, father ?” 

“No harm at all, darling. Pen, even in Paradise, would be 
all the happier to know her little girl blessed her every night ; 
let no one persuade you that it can be wrong. I have not 
taught you much, Dossie. I was never as good as your dear 
mother, but as long as you say your prayers and read the 
Bible she left you, you can^t do amiss.” 

“Yes, father dear, I know you often tell me so. Do you 
read your Bible too?” 

“ Well, you see I am often too busy,” stammered Jack ; how 
could he tell his child that he had never opened it since Pen’s 
death? When he and Dossie went to church together he 
would be thinking of a hundred other things besides the 
sermon ; he only went for the child’s sake, and to help her 
find her places in the big prayer-book. “What is the good 
of it all ?” he would say to himself ; “ I have never been sure 
of anything since Pen died. I never had much religion, and 
the little I possessed is buried with her. ‘We shall meet 
again. Jack. I could not die happily and not believe that,’ 
that was what she said, the darling, but how is one to know 
that?” 

“Go to sleep, Dossie,” he continued, unwilling to carry on 
the conversation, and the child lay down obediently and 
let him cover her up. The touch of the little cold hands rather 
haunted Jack when he got back to his own room. 

“ She wants her mother, poor little thing. Pen would never 
have let her go to bed cold ; she is delicate and excitable, and 
her circulation is slow. I must take her for a walk to-morrow 
when I have finished my work,” and with this resolution he 
feU asleep. 


IN THE EDITOR'S ROOM 


29 


CHAPTER IV. 

IN THE EDITOR^S ROOM. 


•‘As we become more truly human, the world becomes to us more 
truly divine.”— Dr. Moore. 

“ To be a physiognomist, in regard either to the face of nature or the 
face of man, needs accordingly, first that we be great-souled, else we can* 
not possibly compass the greatness of that we contemplate. No bad, con- 
ceited, or affected man can ever be a physiognomist.”— Grindon. 

One afternoon about a week after his visit to 28 Wenvoe 
Road, Launcelot Cliudleigh walked briskly down one of those 
quiet streets leading out of the Strand. The weather was 
still bitterly cold, March wore its lion-like aspect, and certainly 
at the present moment showed no intention of developing its 
lamb-like qualities : the wind was in the north, the heavy at- 
mosphere predicted a fall of snow before morning, and al- 
ready a few particles were falling ; the faces of many of the 
passers-by had a nipped, exasperated expression, as though 
they bore a secret grudge against the weather. A few of them 
looked enviously at the trim alert figure in the foreign over- 
coat. Launcelot walked on contentedly : he was quite im- 
pervious to the cold ; the inward glow of a benevolent purpose 
was keeping him warm. His pace was always rapid, and few 
men could have kept up with him ; and as he walked, his 
quick bird-like glances seemed to scan face after face, half 
curiously, half sympathetically. The study of human nature 
was a i)assion with Launcelot, a crowd delighted him ; the 
city with its surging masses, its business-like proclivities, its 
never-ceasing procession of eager thoughtful men all bent on 
one pursuit, and all hurrying as though the moments were 
precious as sifted gold, was like a vast treasure-house to him, 
where priceless stores of human activities and human interests 
were laid up. Launcelot had no hermit-like qualities ; in 
spite of many inward resources, he would have been misera- 
ble in any fertilized solitude. Waller ^s lines would have been 
exactly true of him : 

“ Hadst thou sprung 
In deserts where no man abide. 

Thou must have uncommended died.” 

Life, movement, ceaseless work, and, if possible, constant 
change of ideas, were as necessary to Launcelot as the air he 
breathed ; it was a favorite speech of his, that so few men 
knew how to live, they simply existed. To him life was al- 
most overpowering in its intense interest, **and one would 
think some fellows had two or three lives to throw away,^^ he 
would say, “they seem to care so little what they do with 


80 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


themselves and yet we shall never be young again, and 
time is passing quickly with all of us. 

The street into which he had turned was a very quiet one 
and was chiefly occupied by publishers, charitable associations, 
and agencies for various companies. 

Launcelot stopped abruptly before a house with “ Imperial 
Review Office’^ written on the door^walked into the office, 
and asked a gray-haired clerk if Mr. Thorpe were disengaged. 
On receiving an answer in the affirmative, he knocked at the 
door of the editor^s room, and, hardly waiting for permission 
to enter, took off his hat and marched in. 

A gentleman who was writing by the window looked up at 
him and nodded. 

“ How do you do, Chudleigh ? Punctual to a minute, I 
see. If you will allow me, I will just finish this letter and 
then it will be off my mind. There is to-day^s copy of the 
* Imperial,' if you will amuse yourself for five minutes." 

"All right," was the laconic reply, and Launcelot threw 
himself down in an arm-chair by the fire, but though he took 
the paper he did not once glance at it. His eyes travelled 
round the room, with its business-like litter, the big editor's 
table, covered with letters, documents, papers, magazines ; 
then his attention wandered to the thoughtful, absorl3ed face 
opposite to him. 

Mr. Thorpe was about his own age, perhaps a year or two 
older ; a quiet-looking gentlemanly man, without any preten- 
sions to good looks, with the sort of face one would hardly 
notice in a crowd, for there was nothing to strike an observer, 
no special or marked characteristic. There are hundreds of 
fades of which one could say this, quiet, self-contained, unat- 
tractive faces that somehow fail to elicit any attention. The 
forehead was good and showed intellectual power, but the 
eyes were rather a cold gray. The lower part of the face was 
somewhat long and narrow, and the firmly-closed lips gave 
one the impression that Mr. Thorpe, though a clever man, 
was slightly prejudiced in his ideas and given to hold his 
opinions tenaciously. No doubt he would be hard in hig 
judgments and at no time so brimming over with the milk of 
human kindness as the man who occupied his arm-chair ; in 
fact, they were complete contrasts, for Mr. Thorpe loved 
silence, and was fonder of solitude than of most men's com- 
pany. 

Launcelot watched him lazily as he dashed off his letter, 
put it into its envelope, rang the bell and desired the messen- 
ger to take it -at once to its destination, and then crossed the 
room and took a chair beside Launcelot. As he stood erect 
for a moment one could see that he was not tall, but his fig- 
ure was good. He was extremely thin, but, though pale and 
somewhat worn, there was no look of ill health about him; 
his voice was low-pitched for a man, but very distinct, and he 
pronounced his words slowly and with precision. 


IN THE EDITORS ROOM, 


81 


“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, he began, “but 
Mullins has let me in for a troublesome bit of business. 
What disagreeable weather,— biting as January ; I expect we 
shall have a downfall of snow before many hours are over. 
Well, I think I have heard of a berth for your friend ; at least 
something has turned up that may suit him.^' 

“All, I knew I had come to the right man,^^ returned 
Launcelot. “ Let me hear all about it, Thorpe.^’ 


but 

you 


“ Well, it may not suit him,” was the cautious reply, “ 
anyhow it is the only thing that offers just now. Have ^ 
ever heard me speak of Neale ?— it used to be Crosbie & Neale, 
of Blackfriars, but the firm failed and they have dissolved 
partnership. It is young Neale I mean, Alfred ; he is going 
to cut the whole concern : he can^t get on with his brother, a 
queer sort of customer, I should say. Well, Alfred Neale is 
going out to South Australia. A large sheep-farm has been 
offered him. The owner, a friend of his, wants to get rid of 
it, — has made his fortune, I believe. He has some money to 
invest and it promises to be a good thing, and he wants another 
man to go out with him and be a sort of partner. Alfred is not 
a bad fellow ; he never liked office work and he was always 
crazy for colonial life, but he is steady as men go — only sociable 
in his nature. He says if it would not be a risky sort of thing 
and that no girl would put up with the life, he should like to 
take a wife out with him, but of course he would not have the 
face to propose such a thing to any young lady ; so he wants 
a pleasant, companionable fellow who will be useful and pay 
his share.” 

“Yes, I see,” replied Launcelot, doubtfully; “but South 
Australia — it is a great distance — I am not sure what my man 
would say to that.” 

“ Ah, people don^t think much of the distance now. I have 
known several men who went there and back for a mere pleas- 
ure trip. Times have changed in this respect, Chudleigh.” 

“Ah, but there is a child in the case, that makes all the 
difference. Bachelors like you and me, Thorpe, cannot enter 
into a father^s feelings ;” but here he stopped, for a shadow 
crossed Mr. Thorpe^s face, a shadow so marked that Launcelot 
could not but be struck with it. 

“Go on, Chudleigh,” observed the other, somewhat im- 
patiently, as though vexed at Launcelot^s inquiring look ; 
“ there is a child in the case, you say.” 

“ Yes, a little girl ; this adds to the difficulty, and he dotes 
on her, poor fellow. I think your friend would like Weston, 
he is good-natured and companionable, and has many good 

E oints, but trouble and ill luck are playing the very deuce with 
im ; not that there is much amiss,” as Mr. Thorpe looked up 
rather sharply at this. “He is weak and careless, and since 
his wife died he has let himself drift a bit, but we can alter 
all that. Chaise of scene and change of occupation will be 
his best cure. His pictures do not sell, and he is getting sick 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


of his brushes and palettes. He is a big> broad-chested fellow, 
with a fist that could fell an ox. He tv^ould make a splendia 
navw.^^ 

We must see what Neale says; the two men ought to 
meet and discuss matters. There is no time to lose ; Neale 
wants to be off next month. 

“All right, I will see Weston about it this evening. Now 
about terms and outfit, and then he and Mr. Thorpe plunged 
into details. 

“It is not a great sum,*^ observed Launcelot, when they 
had fully discussed every point ; “ he could easily be induced 
to take it as a loan. He is a sort of connection, so it is all in 
the family.” 

“ And you intend to lend it to him yourself,” inquired Mr. 
Thorpe, fixing his cold gray eyes on Launcelot^s face with 
rather an inscrutable expression. “ Few men would be so 
generous to a mere connection.” 

“ Pooh ! it is nothing ; I shall not miss it. To be sure the 
boys cost a great deal, especially Geoffrey, but as long as I 
remain a bachelor there is enough and to spare for all of us.” 

“ Your brother Geoffrey is to be a barrister, I hear?” 

“Yes, he is eating his dinners and reading hard : he is a 
clever fellow, and will make his mark by and by. They are 
all fine fellows and give me very little trouble ; it would be 
odd if I minded any outlay for them.” 

“ Surely they are not dependent on you, Chudleigh ; excuse 
me, but you know I take a great deal of interest in your 
affairs.” 

“ Well, no : of course my step-mother has a proper provi- 
sion made for her and her children by my father^s will, and a 
small sum has been set apart for each of them, girls as well as 
boys, but it would hardly be sufficient for all they want, — 
boys are extravagant, and my step-mother has never been 
known to refuse them anything. I very soon had to take 
things into my own hands ; my step-mother could not even 
manage her own income. Now she has everything she wants 
for herself and the girls, and never troubles herself to inquire 
whether our united funds will bear the outlay.” 

“ Humph, I rather doubt the wisdom of this sort of family 
arrangement,” returned Mr. Thorpe, with a sarcastic smile. 
“Supposing you were to marry, Chudleigh, and wanted to 
bring your wife to the Witchens, how would your step-mother 
and her daughters like to turn out?” 

“ I am not sure that I should ask them to turn out : there 
are other houses to be had besides the Witchens. I could 
keep my studio and, — pshaw ! it is idle to enter into this sort 

of detail. I must first find the wife; and then ” but here 

he paused again, for the same inexplicable cloud rested on his 
friend^s face. But before he could finish his sentence Mr. 
Thorae interrupted him. 

“Wait a moment, Chudleigh, please ; I want to say some- 


IN THE EDITORS ROOM. 


sa 


thing. I let an assertion of yours pass uncontradicted just 
now, and it seems hardly fair and honest. You said we were 
both bachelors. I know you have always thought so, but you 
are wrong. I am a married man.^^ 

Launcelot stared at him incredulously, and it was evident 
from his expression that his friend^s statement had given him 
an unpleasant shock. They were somewhat new acquaint- 
ances ; a year ago they had not known of each other^s exist- 
ence, but a strange tie united them, cementing the few months^ 
friendship with the intimacy of years. Launcelot had saved 
Mr. Thorpe^s life at the peril of his own, and he knew from 
that day that in spite of outward coldness and much differ- 
ence of opinion, Ivan Thorpe lo\ ed him like a brother. 

And now he had kept his married life a secret from his 
friend ! No wonder Launcelot, who was frank and open as 
the day, felt himself a little aggrieved. 

“I always meant to tell you,^^ went on Mr. Thorpe, speak- 
ing in the same slow, precise way. “ I always told Rachel 
that I wished you to know, but somehow one defers an un- 
pleasant communication even to our closest friend. My wife 
has left me.^^ 

“ Indeed returned Launcelot, still more shocked, but 
hardly knowing how to express his sympathy. 

“It was what people call incompatibility of temper. Our 
natures did not suit, — at least, she said so. She was very un- 
happy, very undisciplined, and she wanted to go away. I let 
her go ; there was not much comfort in the house while she 
stayed, she and Rachel did not get on together. She was 
young, and our ways did not suit her. There was no scandal, 
she just went back to her people — that is all. I thought per- 
haps she would come back, but she has never done so.^^ 

“And you let her go?’^ exclaimed Launcelot, half indig- 
nantly. He was quite bewildered by Mr. Thorpe^s manner ; 
he had spoken in short abrupt sentences, with a pause between 
each, as though each word were weighted with lead. There 
was no anger, no sorrow perceptible in his manner : he rather 
spoke as though the matter concerned some other man. He 
was a little pale, and there was a look of hardness about his 
mouth, that was all. 

“Of course I set her free when she told me the life was kill- 
ing her by inches, was the impassive answer. “ Would you 
have me keep a woman against her will ? She was in the 
wrong, she was always in the wrong, but she would not own 
it. We were better apart : one has peace, and here there 
was a caught breath, almost like a sigh. “ You will keep this 
to yourself, Chudleigh. I am a stranger in your parts, and 
there is no need for idle gossip. I wished you to know, that 
is all I have to say.^^ 

“ One moment, Thorpe, and Launcelot spoke impulsively ; 
“ I am awfully sorry for you, old fellow. I never dreamed of 
trouble like this. I never could have imagined you were a 
c 


84 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


married man. Perhaps it will come right some day. Of course 
you correspond with her?^^ 

“ Not now ; her letters always made me angry. Rachel 
writes sometimes ; at least, I think so, but I am not sure. 
Nothing makes an impression on her, she has no sense of duty. 
I gave it all up long ago.^' 

** But — but — you must have cared for her or you would not 
have married her,^^ returned Launcelot, growing more puzzled 
every minute. 

“ She was young and poor, and very beautiful, — at least I 
thought so, but I am no judge ; yes, I suppose I cared for her 
once, but she has no heart. A woman cannot have any heart 
when she leaves a good husband. I always did my duty by 
her, Rachel says so.^^ 

“ Good-by, interrupted Launcelot, hastily. “I am very 
sorry, — I am indeed. I will come and see you again, Thorpe, 
either here or at Riversleigh, but I must go now.” Launcelot 
had no pressing engagement, but he felt as though the atmo- 
sphere of the room would choke him ; it positively irritated 
him to listen to those short dry sentences which seemed to deal 
with a woman ^s happiness as though it were a block of wood ; 
the leisurely clipping away of facts, the hard concise state- 
ments without a touch of feeling in voice or manner, were 
more than he could bear ; another time he would go into it, 
if Thorpe wished it, but he had heard enough for the present. 

Mr. Thorpe did not seem to notice this repressed impatience ; 
he held out his hand rather solemnly. 

“ I shall always be glad to see you, Chudleigh ; there is no 
man whose friendship I value as I do yours ; and as you know 
you are a prime favorite with Rachel, and she is hard to please, 
like the rest of her sex, you cannot come too often ; but re- 
member, this is to be a sealed subject between us.” 

“ Do you mean we must not speak of it again even between 
ourselves ?” 

‘‘That is my meaning, certainly. I cannot talk over my 
wife with another man. Rachel has been my only confidante, 
but all the same I wished you to know and then again they 
shook hands solemnly, and Launcelot went down the long 
passage and let himself out into the street with the look of 
perplexity still in his face. 

It was odd that his first connected thought was “Poor Mrs. 
Thorpe, I pity her.” Strange that in the first instance his 
sympathy should be with the woman who had plainly deserted 
her path of duty instead of resting with the deserted' husband, 
but Launcelot was a creature of imnulse, and very warm- 
hearted, and he had felt himself repelled by the other man’s 
coldness. “ He is a good fellow,” he refiected, “ a thoroughly 
good fellow, and I ought to know ; but I do not believe he has 
an ounce of passion in his nature. They are both worthy creat- 
ures. I have not a word to say against him or Miss Rachel. I 
like her less than him, but then he is my friend ; still a young 


IN THE EDITOR'S ROOM. 


36 


undisciplined nature, perhaps with a hasty temper attached 
to it, would meet with scant sympathy from either of them. 
Depend upon it, Miss Rachel had a hand in making her sister- 
in-law wretched. I am sorry for the girl, I am indeed ; and 
yet, poor old Thorpe, I am sorry for him too ; there was a sort 
of hopelessness in nis voice, not exactly pain, it was too frigid 
for that, but as though some experiment on which he had set 
his heart had failed, and the disappointment was a heavy one. 
Halloa, pulling himself up abruptly at this point, and stop- 
ping in the middle of the crowded pavement, to the confusion 
of the busy passers-by, “ what is the matter, my little man V' 
to a ragged urchin who was crying bitterly, and gazing dis- 
tractedly into the road ; and as the boy did not seem to hear 
his question, he put his hand on his shoulder. 

The child turhed round in affright, evidently e^^ecting 

the peeler’^ had got hold of him ; then, reassured by Launce- 
lot^s friendly expression, he blubbered out, — 

“ Please, sir. some cove has been and shoved all my matches 
into the road, and the ^osses have scrunched them, and he 
never gave me nothing, he didn^t, and father^s in the hospital, 
and baby^s bad, and mother and none of us have had anything 
to eat to-day. 

“ Oh, they all say that,^^ observed an old gentleman who 
was passing, “ and they expect us to believe it.” 

“ But what if it be true ?” returned Launcelot, quietly. He 
still had hold of the boy, and seemed perfectly indifferent to 
the fact that a small crowd had collected. A butcher-boy and 
a sweep were trying to pick up a box or two between the 
horses^ feet, but the child only shook his head and sobbed 
afresh. 

They are scrunched, and I ain^t sold one. The cove took 
and pushed me. ‘ Out of my way, you little beggar,^ he says, 
and I warn’t begging, and I tripped up, and the matches 
went, and mother said I was to be careful.” 

“ Where does your mother live ?” asked Launcelot, looking 
down into the dirty, tear-stained face, that was very thin and 
sharp. He was a small, stunted creature, miserably clad and 
neglected looking, and yet with an air of innocent childhood 
about him that one rarely sees in the precocious city Arab. 

** Please, sir, we ain^t lived anywheres since father was took 
to the hospital. We was sold up, and we only sleeps at places 
so much a night or in the casual. Mother is there, under the 
arch, with Sue and baby. Mother sells flowers, but she has 
got her basket still full cos it is going to snow, and coves won^t 
stop to buy.” 

” Come with me, boy. I want to speak to your mother ; she 
shall not scold you. I will tell her some one pushed you ;” 
but as soon as Launcelot saw the woman ^s face he did not fear 
a torrent of vituperation. She was a weak, miserable-looking 
creature, still quite young. She was evidently too much en- 
grossed in trying to feed her sickly baby with a dry crust 


86 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


which she had obtained somehow, and had divided between 
the children, to notice the accident. The other child, a black- 
eyed little girl of three or four, held out her crust for hei 
brother to see. “ Vve dot some bread, Tim ; come and have a 
bite,^^ she said, pushing it towards him. 

“Your little boy has had a misfortune, began Launcelot, 
with the courtesy he always showed to the poorest vagrant,— 
manners cost nothing, and go a long way, he used to say,— 
“Some careless person knocked against him and upset his 
matches in the road.’^ But as the poor creature looked up 
from her fruitless endeavor to push the crust into her baby’s 
mouth, for the child only spluttered and refused the hard, 
distasteful food, he continued with a quick change of tone, 
“ You all look very cold, and Tim says you are hungry^ There 
is a coffee-tavern just by here ; if you will come with me I 
will give you a meal.^^ 

“ God bless you, sir ; it would be a kind act, for we are near 
starving, returned the woman, sheltering her baby carefully 
under her thin shawl and giving her basket to Tim. 

“Ah, you will soon feel better,’^ observed Launcelot: but 
he said no more, only conducted his strange guests through 
the friendly swing door, and established them at a small table 
beside a blazing fire. 

“ Now, there is no hurry. I am going to leave you to enjoy 
your meal,^^ he said presently, when he saw them served with 
cups of smoking coftee and piles of bread and butter. He had 
ordered some warm bread and milk for the baby, and noticed 
with pleasure that the mother fed the famished little creature 
before she tasted food herself, and yet her cheeks were hollow 
with famine. “ Thank God the motherhood has not died out 
of her heart, he said inwardly, and then aloud, “ Let the 
children have some cake when they have finished the bread 
and butter, Mrs. Martin. I am going away for a short time, 
but I will be back before they have done,^^ and as the brisk 
little woman behind the counter nodded in reply Launcelot 
left the shop and, walking on about a hundred yards, dived 
down another side street, quieter than the one where the 

Imperial Review^ ^ office was situated. 

“It is just handy for the present case,^^ he muttered, and 
then he stopped before a dingy-looking house, on the inner 
door of which was written, “Charitable Association for the 
Employment of Women and Children,^^ and, turning the 
handle, he found himself in a small private booking-office with 
a partition dividing it in two, and, passing behind the screen, 
encountered the inquiring glance of a quiet, lady-like woman 
who was writing at a large square table. 

“Mr. Chudleigh with a slight accent of surprise in her 
voice. 

“Yes, Miss Thorpe. Please excuse my abrupt entrance, 
but I have a family round the corner for whom I wish to 
bespeak your kindness.'^ 


jl,AUNCELOTS protMEes, 


Kt 


CHAPTER V. 

LAUNi)ELOT’S PEOT^G^ES. 

** The quality of mercy Is not strained— 

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed : 

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.” 

Shakespeare. 

Miss Thorpe looked quietly amused as Launcelot blurted 
out this abrupt statement, but she was evidently accustomed 
to his impulsive ways. 

A whole family ! I wonder at your courage, Mr. Chud- 
leigh, especially after our late experience, — and yet there was 
only a boy in that case.^’ 

“ Oh, there is a boy now,^^ he returned, in rather a crest- 
fallen manner, for he did not care to be reminded of his fail- 
ures ; every one is duped now and then, he thought. “ A boy 
and a girl and a baby, without counting the mother, and I 
think you will say you have never seen a more wretched lot. 
They are at the coffee-tavern round the corner. Will you see 
them there, or shall I fetch them here to the office 

“ I think I would rather see them here ; but there is no 
hurry for a few minutes, is there? I should very much like 
to finish this report ; it will not take me more than ten min- 
utes, and then I will interview your prot6g6es.^^ 

Miss Thorpe spoke with the quick, decided air of a busy 
woman who has not a minute to lose, and Launcelot, who 
knew her well, wasted no more words, but applied himself to 
the task of replenishing the fire. 

Miss Thorpe was at least ten or twelve years older than her 
brother, to whom she bore a strong resemblance, but she had 
greater claims to good looks ; and while Mr. Thorpe, with his 
quiet, well-bred manners, seldom made a strong impression at 
nrst on strangers. Miss Thorpe attracted a great deal of atten- 
tion from people who were not afraid of a strong-minded 
woman, and, though not a general favorite with her own sex, 
her opinions were always heard with deference. 

She had a refined, sensible face and great dignity of bearing, 
but a physiognomist or acute observer of human nature would 
have been perplexed by certain incongruities of feature ; for 
example, the broad benevolent forehead and pleasant gray 
eyes were somewhat neutralized by the thin, firmly-ciosed 
lips and determined jaw ; the lower part of the face was elon- 
gated like her brother's, and reproduced the same expression 
of tenacity, approaching to hardness. 

Launcelot and she were on excellent terms with each other 

4 


88 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


He had a great respect and admiration for her ; but he thought 
less of her as a woman than of Mr. Thorpe as a man, and yet 
she invariably turned her softest side to him. 

But they had had many an argument together, and Launce- 
lot had soon discovered for himself that, though singularly 
upright and pure-minded, and with a noble sense of duty, she 
had narrow views and strong prejudices, and that while she 
was faithful to her friends, she was bitterly antagonistic to 
those who had the misfortune to offend her ; in fact, as 
Launcelot once said in his dry way, “Miss Thorpe is a phi- 
lanthropist, but she is hardly charitable and though he was 
never likely to incur her severe judgment on his own account, 
he often wished for greater toleration to be shown to less 
favored mortals. 

Miss Thorpe^s master-passion was affection for her brother. 
He was her only remaining relative, and they had never been 
separated. The difference in their ages lent something of ma- 
ternal solicitude to her love. He had been a delicate boy, and 
for some years her charge had been an anxious one, but as he 
regained his health and ceased to be dependent on her for 
comfort, he never forgot how much he owed his present well- 
being to her unwearied care and nursing, and as he grew to 
manhood, her influence over him increased instead of les- 
sened, and he seldom acted against her advice, except in the 
case of his unfortunate marriage. 

They were both undemonstrative, deep-thinking people, and 
seldom made any protestation of affection ; but a profound 
sympathy united the brother and sister, and, though their 
work in life differed, they thought alike on most points. 

Launcelot was quite aware that Miss Thorpe regarded him 
with peculiar favor as her brother's friend, and, in spite of a 
tendency to feminine jealousy, she would allow him to monop- 
olize Ivan^s company to any extent. She owed him too deep 
a debt of gratitude to think any such sacrifice could repay 
him. Had he not saved her brother’s life and at the peril of 
his own, and that under terrible circumstances? They had 
met Launcelot Chudleigh, for the first time, on the Enga^ 
dine, and, as it often happens with travelling acquaintances, 
they struck up a rapid intimacy, and made many pleasant 
excursions together. It was on one of these expeditions, un- 
dertaken without a guide, that the accident happened that 
might have ended fatally for at least one of the party, and 
which none of the three were ever likely to remember with- 
out a shudder until their dying day. 

Launcelot w^ assisting Miss Thorpe in her search for a par 
ticular Alpine plant which she was anxious to add to her col- 
lection, and which grew in this part, when a slight sound be- 
hind them attracted his attention, and the next moment he 
had sprung to his feet with a low exclamation of horror. 

There had been no cry for help, and how it had happened 
no one knew ; perhaps Mr. Thorpe had gone too near the edge 


LAUNGELOTS PROT^Q&ES. 


S. 

of the precipice or the earth had slipped ; he had been in 
safety a minute before, and now all but his head and arms 
had disappeared from their view, — he was literally hanging 
over the terrible abyss that yawned in giddy de^hs below 
him, while he clung for dear life to a broken splinter of rock, 
on the edge of the ravine, that might at any moment be dis- 
lodged and uprooted by the sheer weight of his body. 

Even at this moment of supreme and deadly peril, Launoe- 
lot noticed two things, on which he afterwards commented, — 
first, that Ivan in his despair uttered no cry for help, and that 
his white face and eyes dilated with mental anguish were 
fixed not on them but on the blue sky above them ; and sec- 
ondly, that the moan that escaped Miss Thorpe^s lips was re- 
strained before it broke into a scream, though other women 
would have rent the air with unavailing shrieks. 

Hold fast, for God^s sake Launcelot^s lips, parched with 
terror, could hardly utter the words ; the next moment he was 
lying with his face close to the ground, moving warily towards 
the edge of the chasm, till his arm gripped Ivan^s body, then 
he cautiously wound his other arm round the splintered 
rock. 

“I think it will last our time,^^ he muttered; “now, 
Thorpe, loose one hand and hold me round the neck. Now 
then, let go.*^ An instant^s terrific strain on Launcelot's 
part, an agonized effort on Ivan^s, and the two men were in 
safety, and when Miss Thorpe, who had fiung herself on her 
knees, dared to look up, she saw her brother lying senseless on 
the ground, and Launcelot beside him, panting and voiceless, 
with a curious gray look on his face, too much spent to do 
anything but to make a sign that she should find the fiask of 
brandy that he always carried about him. 

When Ivan roused to complete consciousness he looked long 
and steadily at Launcelot. 

“ You have saved my life, Chudleigh. I do not believe any 
other man would have done it and then, in a husky tone, 
“ and at the risk of your own.^^ 

“Pooh ! nonsense,^^ returned Launcelot, still very pale, and 
trying to hide the pain of his sprained arm. “I could have 
done nothing without your help : your nerve was splendid. 
If you had not kept so still, no human power could have pre- 
vented you from oeing dashed to pieces ; it was real pluck, 
and no mistake, that made you hold on and do as you were 
told. Miss Thorpe was a bit of a heroine too,^^ with an at- 
tempt at a smile ; “ if she had screamed we should both have 
been lost ; one ought hardly to breathe in such a case,^^ fin- 
ished Launcelot, and then he set his teeth hard and tried not 
to groan. 

“ Nevertheless I shall always feel that under Providence I 
owe you my life, relied the other, quietly, and as he spoke 
there was a sudden flash of feeling in the cold gray eyes that 
told Launcelot that the hidden depths of this man^s nature 


40 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


had been stiiTed, and that henceforth he would ever regard 
himself as his debtor, but the next moment he said, with a 
change of tone, — 

“By heavens! you are hurt, Chudleigh ; you wince with 

E ain, your lips are quite white. Rachel, where is the flask 
ut Launcelot shook his head. 

“I do not want brandy now; it is my arm and shoulder 
that are sprained. You are no light weight, Thorpe, and 


confound it, I believe you have dislocated my neck. 


and 

then he laughed, but immediately frowned with pain. “ Let 
us get back to the hotel ; there is nothing the matter with my 
legs. Miss Thorpe, will you give your brother the support of 
your arm, he looks shaky still but Ivan would not hear of 
this arrangement. 

Launcelot walked on steadily, and every now and then he 
said a word or two, but the brother and sister scarcely an- 
swered, they only exchanged looks of wonderment. What 
pluck, what endurance ! Once Rachel took her brother's 
hand and pressed it, and a great tear rolled down her cheeks. 

“But for him, I should have no brother now,^^ she said, 
in a low voice. “Ivan, I can scarcely endure even the 
thought.’^ 

“ It was almost miraculous, he returned, looking at the 
ground; “no other man could have done it. A minute^s 
hesitation and it would have been too late. I could not have 
held on much longer,” he paused, and then went on as though 
to himself. “I had no hope: I thought it was all up with 
me,” and then, with rather a pale flicker of a smile, ‘‘Joan 
would have been a widow. It is rather a pity for her.” 

Miss Thorpe^s face grew stern, but she did not answer. In 
her heart she was sorry that that name should be mentioned at 
such a moment, but just then Launcelot turned back and made 
some trifling observation, and there was no more said between 
the brother and sister. 

Launcelot had a very bad time for a fortnight after this. 
The dislocated shoulder was a trifle compared to his grains, 
but he bore his pain as cheerily as he could, and the lliorpes 
nursed him with unremitting attention and devotion. Rachel 
grew very fond of him ; he was an excellent patient, and 
seldom argued about his treatment. He made love to her as 
he did to all women, only in an innocent, brotherly manner, 
that quite fascinated her, and she soon treated him as she 
treatea Ivan. A strong friendship between this singular trio 
was speedily cemented in Launcelot^s sick-room, and in spite 
of the Thorpes^ reserve and undemonstrative manner, Launce- 
lot knew that they would be his friends for life. He still 
preferred Ivan to his sister, but that was because his peculiar 
taste led him to prefer softer women. Ivan's culture and 
intellectual cast of mind, his varied knowledge and quiet sense 
of power, made him a delightful companion to Launcelot ; 
he soon found out he was sympathetic as well as dependable. 


LAUNGELOTS PROT&QJ^ES. 


41 


and it was not until their interview in the editor^s room that 
Launcelot discovered how little Ivan had ever talked of his 
own private affairs, though he had always been interested in 
all his friend^s personal matters. Launcelot^s eyes rested 
furtively on Miss Thorpe^s face as she finished her report ; 
the words that Mr. Thorpe had just uttered were still sound- 
ing in his ears ; she was young and poor, and very beautiful, 
and — and undisciplined.” “ Poor thing, what chance would 
she have against this calm, law-loving, reasonable woman ?” 
thought Launcelot, with a growing pity for the misguided 
and feckless young creature who had forfeited her own rights. 

“ She and Rachel could not get on,” Mr. Thorpe had added, 
in a weary tone, that spoke of bitter and hopeless conflicts. 
‘‘Of course not, if they were to be true to their separate 
natures,” was his internal response, and as he looked again at 
the calm strong face, which, even in repose, gave the idea of 
an unflinching and despotic will, just then Miss Thorpe raised 
her head and intercepted this critical glance, with a smile 
that was very bright and pleasant. 

“ There, I nave finished ; how patient you have been, not a 
restless movement. Why, Ivan would have walked up and 
down the room a dozen times, but then he never allows me 
to keep him waiting ; he never will own that it is our feminine 
prerogative. Now, Mr. Chudleigh, as you have been good 
enough to consult me, I suppose you will leave things in my 
hands.” 

“ Cela va sans dire, I am quite aware of Miss Thorpe^s dis- 
like to any interference,” was the slightly mocking answer. 
“ Of course, I mean to hold my tongue.” 

“ Well, well, fetch your family, and let us get it over,” was 
the good-humored response, and Launcelot needed no second 
bidding. The snow was beginning to fall as he hastened down 
the street, and made him rejoice that the poor creatures had 
been fed and warmed. In a few minutes he had marshalled 
them safely into Miss Thorpe^s presence, and was listening 
with much interest to her quiet, skilful questions. 

The woman seemed willing enough to answer them ; her 
husband was a costermonger, she said, and sold all sorts of 
green stuff. She could not deny that he drank sometimes, 
though he was not a bad husband when he was sober ; but 
they had done poorly for a long time, and things had been 
going from bad to worse when the accident happened. 

On being cross-examined she at once admitted that certainly 
Bob had had a drop too much that day ; he was put out at 
having to part with the donkey, because they could not afford 
to keep him, and he had had a quarrel with the coster that 
bought him, but then they had made it up and had a glass to- 
gether. It was dark when he crossed the road, and the van 
knocked him over, but it was no one^s fault but Bob^s. 

“To which hospital did they take your husband?” asked 
Miss Thorpe. 


4 * 


42 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


“ To the one in the Whitechapel Road, please my lady,* 
returned the woman. 

‘‘The London Hospital: I know the chaplain, and can 
easily make inquiries. I will write to-night.^' And, some- 
what to her surprise, the woman^s face brightened. 

Would she “ ask the gentleman, then, to tell Bob that she 
and the young^uns were getting along somehow? For you 
see, missis, she continued, “all the worriting in the world 
will not help my master to mend his broken bones ; and he is 
a worrier, is Bob, when he can^t get no liquor to drown them 
sort of thoughts. 

Miss Thorpe raised her eyes and looked at Launcelot. “You 
will find it is all true,^^ he telegraphed back, and she half 
nodded ; and then, to his great relief, he heard her tell the 
woman that she and the children should be sheltered for a 
night or two at their Refuge, while inquiries were made. 
“ The poor baby looks very ill, and you are far from well 
vourself. If we find you have spoken the truth, and your 
nusband is really disabled, we shall try to help you as long as 
he is in the hospital.” And then, on touching a hand-bell 
beside her, a stout, middle-aged woman, with a face very 
much scarred with the smallpox, entered the room. 

“ Betty, will you show this woman the way to the Refuge ; 
1 will be round in half an hour,” and then with a kindly nod 
she dismissed them, but Launcelot patted Tim^s curly head as 
he passed him, and slipped a bright sixpence into his hand. 
“ Always tell the truth, my boy, and shame the devil,” he 
said, by way of precept. 

“ Father^s great friends with the devil,” returned Tim, with 
native impudence, but his blue eyes looked wistfully into 
LaunceloFS kind face ; “ he is always a talking of him."” 

“Hold your tongue, Tim, and don^t treat the gentry to 
none of your emperence,” observed his mother, with a rough 
shove, a form of argument to which Tim yielded. Launce- 
lot^s eyes twinkled as they closed the door. 

“ I have rather taken a fancy to that little chap. You must 
not let him go, Miss Thorpe ; he is a jewel in the rough, is 
Tim. He is a friend of father^s, is he ? that is a trifle cutting 
to say of one's parent.” 

“ Mr. Chudleigh, did you notice Betty just now?” 

“ No — yes ; she was an extremely plain person.” 

“Ah, I was not thinking of her looks. Betty is an im- 
portant person in my eyes, — she is my factotum. I should 
be lost without her, and yet she was only a waif and stray 
like this woman. 

“ You don't say so !” 

“ I met her in Hungerford Market. She was starving, des- 

E erate ; all her children were dead, and she meant to drown 
erself that night. I took her hand, — I had no refuge then, 
and this society was not organized. I was in fear and trem- 
bling what Ivan would say, but he did not say much. Betty 


LAUNCELOrS PROTtlGtlES. 


43 


was grateful and to be trusted, and we have not parted since ; 
but, as you remark, she is not handsome,” finished Miss 
Thorpe, with quiet sarcasm. 

“ You are a good woman,” was the reply. “ Thank you for 
telling me this ; I like to hear such things, it gives me a 
pleasant feeling. Now I must go to poor Weston. Good-by, 
Miss Thorpe, and thank you ; you have been a real help to 
me.” 

“She is a good woman,” he repeated, as he again faced 
the driving snow ; “ but what a contrast to Madella. Ma- 
della would have had that dirty-faced baby in her arms ; 
she cannot look at a baby without kissing it. Miss Thorpe 
is not a demonstrative woman ; now I come to think of it, 
I do not believe she ever kissed her own brother ; at least, 
I have never seen her do it. Some brothers and sisters are 
like that, it depends on their brining up.” 

Launcelot had nearly reached Kichmond before a certain 
craving and void reminded him that he had not dined, and 
that, in fact, dinner was an unattainable luxury for this night, 
unless he left his charitable mission unfulfilled. 

He had a fine healthy appetite, and though he was by no 
means dainty or fastidious, he was a little particular about 
his food, and never could be brought to understand why a 
man should not enjoy the good things of this life. 

“ There is a lot about eating and drinking in the Bible,” he 
once observed when one of his sisters took him to task for 
being too material in his tastes. “ Those old patriarchs had a 
grand notion of hospitality ; I dare say roast kid was a savory 
dish when a man was spent with fatigue and hunger. And 
then there was the land fiowing with milk and honey ; well, 
I suppose people were to enjoy plenty of good things there.” 
And when an admirable example of abstinence was quoted 
by another sister who was a little inclined to High Cnurch 
views, he had replied with a fine scorn : “Ah, I don^t hold with 
your mediaeval saints at all. Bee ; why, would you believe it,” 
addressing the company at large, “ that actually some out- 
landish bishop or other, who was afterwards canonized, was 
not aware that he had finished his poached eggs, but went on 
calmly sowing his bread in the water they had been boiled 
in? and Bee actually admires this ridiculous absence of 
mind !” 

“ Ah, but he is not telling the story in an interesting way ; 
it was St. Francis de Sales, — and — ” but here Launcelot 

E ushed his chair away with a derisive laugh, and refused to 
ear any more. 

And now he remembered he had lunched early on a sand- 
wich and glass of claret, intending to dine at his club that 
night. He wondered what he should have ordered : a fried 
sole, or some turbot, perhaps, and some of those excellent 
cutlets, — they cooked cutlets so well, — and a morsel of gor- 
gonzola to follow. Well, really, as the sense of hunger in- 


44 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


creased, he was not sure about the cutlets : a slice off the 
joint, a sirloin of beef, for example, would be more satisfying ; 
and then all at once he recalled the little group in the coffee 
tavern, the way the famished children had almost torn at the 
bread and butter. Me drefful hungry,” she had said, clutch- 
ing a large lump of plum-cake in one hand and a half-bitten 
slice in the other. 

“Good heavens!” thought Launcelot, as he recalled this 
scene, “ what a terrible feeling it must be to be really hungry ! 
It would be a good discipline to miss a meal now and then, 
just to have a taste of what these poor creatures suffer day 
after day,” and Launcelot shook himself, for he was powdered 
with snowflakes, and knocked at 28 Wenvoe Road. “Now 
for a cup of weak sloppy tea, and a crust of bread and butter 
to still the craving within,” he said to himself, dismissing 
imaginary flavors with a great effort. 

“ Am I interrupting you?” he asked, putting his head into 
the room after a preliminary tap. Dossie, who was just then 
balancing a large Britannia metal teapot with great difficulty, 

E ut it down to clap her hands, and her father started up from 
is chair. 

“Launcelot! who ever would have expected you on such 
a night? Sit down, my dear fellow, and warm yourself. 
Have you dined? No ! Dossie, run down to Mrs. Slater and 
ask her to make some fresh tea ; this is poor stuff. Tell her it 
must be hot and strong. Now, Launcelot, try some of this 
pie ; it is not so bad. Mrs. Slater makes famous pies, and the 
steak is not so tough as usual.” 

“Tough! it is excellent,” returned Launcelot, falling to 
with an alacrity that delighted his friend. Hunger is cer- 
tainly a sauce piquante, for Launcelot was ready to swear that 
no steak pie had ever seemed so delicious. “Why are you 
not doing justice to it too?” he asked, for Jack^s portion lay 
untasted on his plate. 

“ Father says lie cannot eat to-night,” returned Dossie, anx- 
iously ; “ his head aches, and he cannot talk either.” Laun- 
celot darted one of his quick looks at Jack as the child spoke, 
—was he ill, or had anything fresh happened? He looked 
pale, haggard, unshorn, and he seemed to rouse himself with 
difficulty to entertain his guest. 

Dossie seemed uneasy about him, for she watched him with 
a grave womanish expression on her pale little face. “This 
is nice hot tea, father, it will do your head good,” she said, 
carrying the cup round to him. “ Shall I toast you a bit or 
bread my owh^self?” but her father only shook liis head with 
a faint smile. 

“Never mind me, Dossie, you must look after our friend 
here ;” and Dossie, somewhat sadly, turned her attention to 
her guest. 

Launcelot took no notice of this little by-play ; something 
was amiss, that was evident. He was sure of it when, after 


LAUNCELOTS PROTM^JES. 


46 

the meal was finished, Jack called the child to him and whis- 
pered a word or two in her ear. 

Dossiers lip drooped, but she uttered no audible protest ; she 
went up straight to Launcelot and offered him a limp little 
hand. 

Father thinks, as I have a cold, Nancy had better put me 
to bed,^^ she said, in a patient small voice that went to Laun- 
celot-s heart. Wait a moment, my dear,^^ he said, putting 
his arm round her ; “ there is something in the hall that we 
must look at together. May I fetch it in. Jack? Nancy can 
wait a few minutes,” and as Jack offered no remonstrance, 
Launcelot went out of the room and returned immediately 
with a neat brown paper parcel, with “ Miss Weston” written 
on it in large printed letters. 

Dossiers eyes sparkled, and the blood rushed to her face. 

“ Is it for me — really for me?” she exclaimed incredulously. 
“ Father dear, will you undo the knots? Ah, that is better,” 
as Launcelot produced a knife, “I do hate knots so — oh — ” a 
long-drawn-out “ oh” of ecstasy, as the wrappers were re- 
moved, and revealed a beautiful green Russia leather writing- 
case of the most complete description, with a gilt monogram 
“ D. W.” in the centre. 

Dossie was absolutely speechless as she regarded the treas- 
ure. Launcelot put the little key in her hand and made her 
open it, and there displayed the numerous wonders, — ivory 
pen- and pencil-case, paper-knife, and store of dainty paper and 
envelopes, a blotting-book, inkstand, and lovely gold scissors. 

“ Father, oh, father !” was all she could reiterate, but Jack, 
though he was moved by the sight of his child^s pleasure, 
shook his head in a disapproving manner. 

“ This is wrong of you, Launcelot,” he said, gravely ; “ it is 
far too handsome and costly for a baby. Why, it is real Rus- 
sia leather.” 

Tut — nonsense ! I wanted Dossie to have something really 
nice. I never give cheap presents to young ladies — ” but 
Dossie interrupted him. 

shall keep it all my life, — it is the very, very thing I 
wanted ; a real writing-case of my own,” and then she went 
close to Launcelot, and put up her face beseechingly. “Oh, 
I want to kiss you,” she said, ** I do want to kiss you so,” and 
as Launcelot bent over her, smiling at her childlike simplicity, 
she put her arms round his neck. “ I think you are the nicesl 
man next to father that I have ever ^een,” finished Dossie, 
as she carried over her treasure to show Nancy. 


46 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


CHAPTER VI. 

‘‘DOSSIE WILIi NOT FORGIVE ME.^^ 

“ My poverty and not my will consents/’ 

Romeo and Juliet. 

“What a pity we cannot always be a child, observed 
Launcelot, in an amused tone; “such a little gives them 
pleasure. They are the truest philosophers, after all ; one 
would do well to take a lesson out of their books,” then in 
the same quiet, matter-of-fact manner, “ What^s up to-night. 
Jack? You look quenched somehow, as though something 
has gone wrong with you.” 

“ Never mind ; it is safest sometimes to hold one^s tongue,” 
was the gruff answer. 

“ Least said, soonest mended, you mean. Well, you may 
be as brief as you lik-e ; brevity is the soul of wit. I com- 
pletely endorse that sentiment.” 

“No, confound you ; don^t you see? I want no questions,” 
was the irritated reply. “ I meant to tell you, and then I 
changed my mind. I don^t believe you would be a safe confi- 
dant ; you are too — too — ” and here he hesitated for a word — 
“ too soft-hearted.” 

“Oh, come now,” returned the other, cheerfully, “I can 
stand abuse, but there are limits to everything ; soft-hearted, 
I object to that phrase ; it is like comparing me to a worn-out 
pincushion. Soft — no, I am hard, hard as adamant,” striking 
himself on the chest, “except to children ;” but as the other 
made no sort of resi>onse to this, he continued more seriously : 
“ Come, Jack, I have not deserved this ; do I look like a man 
who would fight shy of a fellow in trouble?” 

Jack raised his heavy eyes at this, and a curious dimness 
crept over them. 

“Give it up, Lance,” he said, tremulously, going back un- 
consciously to the old boyish name. “ Don^t mix yourself up 
in my affairs. I am not fit company for a fellow who has 
kept himself straight all his life. I am a black sheep, and 
all the washing will not make me white. I have made a mess 
of my life, as I told you, and now things have come to such a 
pass that I may as well fling up the game.” 

“ Humph, ^ ^thoughtfully, “ I never could see how that is to 
be done. So your pictures wont sell, eh ?” 

“No, the dealer says he has had enough, and that the last 
lot hangs on hand. I think I told you that before. I have 
been to ever so many men, and they all say the same, — that 
my pictures are not what they used to be. What am I to 
do?” finished Jack, in a tragic voice, that was neverthelens 


^^DOSSIE WILL NOT FORGIVE ME.*^ 


47 


very pathetic. “ I have broken into my last sovereign, and 
there is the child, and how am I to go and hang myself?” 

Ah, true,” was the equable answer. “ Dossie would make 
that a very inconvenient mode of proceeding, because you see 
a man cannot go decently out of the world and leave his child 
to starve or go to a workhouse, — no, no, that would be very 
un-English and un gentlemanly.” 

“Ah, confound it all!” returned poor sore-hearted Jack, 
“ can^t you answer a fellow seriously when he — he is broken- 
hearted?” and here something like a sob or an oath, or a 
mingling of both, rose to his lips ; “ fancy Pen^s little girl in a 
workhouse !” 

“Chut, man, a mere figure of speech. Now let us leave 
tragedy and confine ourselves to commonplace. You are in 
what the Yankees call ‘a fix^ at the present moment; the 
money-supply has stopped; your wares are a drug in the 
market ; you owe perhaps a trifie of rent.” 

“Only a week. Mrs. Slater would not allow me longer 
credit.” 

“ AJ^ a sensible business-like woman. I rather respect her 
since I have eaten half that pie. Well, Jack, things seem 
pretty bad ; indeed, they could hardly loot worse, from your 
point of view. Now, I have a proposition to make : drop your 
paint-brush, and take to sheep-farming in Australia.” 

Jack frowned and pulled his beard impatiently. 

“ Are you in your senses?” he asked, mirthfully. “ I never 
thought you particularly practical, but still I should have im- 
agined tnat any one not a child would have known something 
in the shape of capital is required for that sort of thing. There 
is the voyage and the outfit, not to mention the buying of 
she^, and a few other items.” 

“ Oh, I know all about it, but I am perfectly serious, I assure 
you. There is a berth open to your acceptance, if you will only 
be man enough to take it,” and in a quiet, distinct voice, that 
was not without its soothing infiuence on the half-bewildered 
Jack, he laid the whole plan before him. 

“ It will be a loan, and you can easily repay it in three or 
four years,” he continued ; “ it will be just the life to suit you. 
Jack, for you were always given to roving. Neale is a pleasant 
fellow, they say, — sociable and open-handed. I should think 
you would chum excellently together. Come, strike while the 
iron is hot ; you will not get such a chance as this every day.” 

“It is the first that has ever been offered to me,” returned 
the other, slowly. “I should be a fool to say no, but,” with a 
quick change of tone, “ how about Dossie ? It would be rather 
a rough life for my little girl.” 

“My dear fellow, what are you thinking about? Dossie — 
do you suppose two men could hamper themselves with the 
care of a child? Neale would not hear of such a thing for a 
moment. There is a house to be sure, rather a rough one, but 
there is not another one within ten miles ; the shepherd^s wife 


48 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


has a hut close by, but she would hardly be the sort of woman 
to take care of a young lady.^^ 

^‘No, no, I see, it would never do. Dossie would grow up 
rough and uneducated, and with Neale — no, of course it would 
never answer. Why did you propose such an impossible 
scheme? Launcelot, I really thought for the moment that 
it would be a solution to my difficulty. 

“ You are right there ; it will be a turning-point in your life. 
1 mean you to go, but you must leave Dossie behind.” 

Jack almost sprang from his chair. “ Leave Dossie, never !” 
he said, in a voice so loud and angry that it would have 
daunted any other man, but Launcelot merely looked at him 
and went on. 

“You have not heard me to the end,— in fact, you do not 
comprehend the situation. Of course you must leave Dossie 
in England. Your case will not be worse than many Indian 
officers, who have to part with their children. During the 
few years you are out there you will be working and making a 
home for her. By the time she is old enough to be your house- 
keeper, you will come back with money in your pocket to 
enioy your hard-earned rest.” 

“ But — but, the child ?” staring at him. “ Would you have 
me go away and break Dossiers heart?” 

“ Children's hearts do not break so easily,” returned Launce- 
lot, calmly. “ Don^t glare at me as though you thought me a 
brute, for I am thinking of the chikPs good as well as yours. 
Dossie will fret at first, for she is absolutely devoted to you, 
but Madella will soon contrive to make her "happy.” 

“ Della ? What has my sister to do with it ?” 

“ Why, Dossie will go to the Witchens, of course,” was the 
ready answer. “ It will be her home until you have one 
ready for her. Don^t trouble yourself about IVIadella ; she 
does whatever I tell her. Do you think she would not be 
kind to your motherless child? Why, the thing will work 
admirably all round,” he continued with animation. “ Sybil 
is only two years older than Dossie, and very backward and 
childish for her age, so they will do their lessons together. 
Miss Rossi ter is an excellent governess, and makes Sybil very 
happy. They will have masters besides, so Dossie will be 
quite an accomplished young lady.” 

But Jack could bear no more. He pushed his chair back, 
and walked hurriedly up and down the room. 

“You mean well, Launcelot, and — and it is an awful temp- 
tation,” herald at last, bringing out his words with difficulty. 

‘ I should like to make a fresh beginning, but it cannot be 
done. I must find work in England. Dossie has never been 
away from me, and Pen — Pen said I must take care of her. 
You do not understand, but I believe it would break both 
our hearts to have the ocean between us.” 

Launcelot was silent for a few minutes, and then he said 
quietly, “ You must not decide now. Jack ; you must think it 


^^DOSSIE WILL NOT FORGIVE ME.^^ 


49 


over. After all, there are some things a man must settle for 
himself. God forbid that I should meddle with you or your 
child, but^^ — with a pause that spoke volumes — “ do not throw 
away lightly such a chance, for Dossiers sake.^^ 

His words seemed to arrest Jack^s attention ; his restless 
strides ceased, and he stood still for a moment. 

“ For Dossiers sake ! What do you mean ? Am I not giving 
It all up just for the child’s good?” 

“No,” was the reply. A very decided No. 

“ But I am” — angrily. “ I am keeping my promise to Pen, 
and trying to do my duty by her child.” 

“ I am quite sure you mean to do so, but do you think any 
mother — and especially such a loving one as you describe her 
to be — would be satisfied with the life your child leads ? How 
are you to help it if you keep her with you? You must work, 
and — pardon me — Dossie must be neglected. She has no one 
to teach her. She is growing up precocious and imaginative 
for want of womanly training ; and how are you to give her a 
good education ? Do you think her mother would not be far 
more contented to know she was leading a regular healthy 
life with other children under Madella’s tender care? No, 
Jack — do not deceive yourself ; do not mistake selfishness for 
love. It is for Dossie’s good that you should go, and for her 
good also that she should be left behind.” 

It cost Launcelot an effort to say all this, with Jack’s misera- 
ble eyes fixed on him. But it was his duty to speak plainly. 
Had his words gone home ? He rather thought so from the 
expression on Jack’s face, though he only fiung himself petu- 
lantly into his arm-chair when Launcelot had finished. 

“ I cannot talk any more about it — it makes me sick. I will 
think it over ; and — and when will you come again ?” 

“ To-morrow evening about half-past eight. Will that suit 
you?” returned Launcelot, taking the hint and putting on 
his overcoat with cheerful alacrity. His manner conveyed 
no impression that he was hurt by this abrupt dismissal, or 
thought Jack somewhat selfish to demand the sacrifice of 
another evening. Launcelot had his friend’s interest too 
much at heart to take heed of such things. But Jack recol- 
lected himself in time. 

“ I have no right to be troubling you like this, — making 
you tramp down here in all weathers. Is there anywhere 
where I can speak to you, — at your club ? Or shall I write ?— 
though I am not much of a hand at a letter.” 

“ No, no ; I will run down just for an hour, — I shall think 
nothing of it. And, Jack, don’t trouble to wait tea ; I shall 
have dined” (a mental resolution to that effect was en- 
tered on the tablets of his memory even at that supreme mo- 
ment). “ Good-night, old fellow ! I wish I were leaving you 
more comfortably.” 

“ Oh, it is not your fault,” was the dreary answer. “ I have 
made my bed, and must lie on it.” And then he accompanied 
o d 6 


60 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


his guest to the door. Launcelot looked back at him as ht 
went down the steps. He was standing on the threshold, 
staring out at the whirling snow, unconscious that the soft 
white particles were powdering nis brown beard. "What a 
handsome fellow he was, thought Launcelot ; big and strong 
and powerful. And then, oddly enough, an old nursery dog- 
gerel came into his head, — 

“ This is the man, all tattered and tom, 

Who married the maiden all forlorn.” 

“ Poor Pen ! poor little Dossie ! and, above all, poor unstable 
Jack finished Launcelot, as a great wave of pity surged up 
in his heart for the man he had left. Perhaps if he had seen 
Jack sitting motionless and still, staring into the black ashes 
until half the night had gone, he would have felt still more 
sorry for him. 

For even a weak man fights a fierce battle sometimes, and 
is only overcome by the repeated assaults of the enemy, and 
though Jack was a reprobate in many people^s eyes, he had 
his good impulses, his honest purposes of amendment, like 
other men, and was never so completely overcome of evil that 
he did not remember and cherish the good lessons that had 
been taught him ; and many a rigid Pharisee, whose nature 
had not tempted him, would have been incapable of the blind 
devotion and tender idolatry lavished by Jack on his mother- 
less child. 

“ She loved much,^^ was spoken of a greater sinner, of one 
who had drunk deeply of the dregs of sin ; and may we not 
with trembling hope believe of many a poor prodigal, that 
omniscient love sees the good that lies between the strata of 
evil ; the poor feeble striving, so quickly choked, for a better 
life ; the half-paralyzed efforts, — the dumb cry for another 
chance, for help, for deliverance? Alas for us, for “ The first 
shall be last and the last first” was certainly spoken by One 
who knew the hearts of men. 

Launcelot was very busy all the next day. He went up to 
his club in St. Jameses Street early in the morning to read the 
papers and write his letters, — a very usual habit of his when 
he was not at work in his studio, for he loved the bustle of the 
West End, especially at the beginning of the season ; and, as 
he said, his friends always knew where to find him. 

One of his letters — a long, chatty one — was directed to Mrs. 
Chudleigh,^ Villa Campanini, Mentone, but from the first page 
to the last He made no mention of Jack Weston. The other 
letter was much shorter, but seemed to cost him a great deal 
of thought, for he frowned over it with a dissatisfied air. I 
think I have laid it on pretty well,” he said to himself, as he 
wrote the address — “Bernard Chudleigh, Magdalen College. 
Oxford,” but the next moment his face relaxed : “ Poor old 
Bear— we were all young once,” and he slipped a check into 


^^DOSSIE WILL NOT FORGIVE ME.^^ 61 

the envelope in rather a hasty manner, as though he were 
ashamed of the action. 

After this he went to lunch with a friend who had cham- 
bers in Jermyn Street, and spent a pleasant hour listening to 
the discussion of two literary men on the necessity of an 
international copyright and some sort of society or association 
for the protection of authors. When he had quite exhausted 
the subject, he sent for a hansom, and had himself conveyed 
to Waterloo ; there he sent off a telegram, and then took a 
ticket for Chelsea. 

An acquaintance of his, a rising artist, was to exhibit his 
new picture to a few friends, and afternoon tea was provided 
for their refreshment. Launcelot had already seen the pic- 
ture, but he always enjoyed these little gatherings, and he 
liked to flirt in a harmless way with his friend^s sister, — a 
handsome young widow, — who presided over the tea-table on 
these occasions. 

It was rather a picturesque scene. Outside the sun was 
shining on the crisp snow, “as though it were January in- 
stead of March,” observed Mrs. MacDonald with a shiver, but 
the great logs were burning cheerily on the hearth, round 
whi^ the ladies were grouped in their furs and velvets. 

Ferguson, Launcelot^s friend and host, moved among them 
in his brown velvet coat and a hothouse flower in his button- 
hole ; the picture stood on its great easel in the middle of the 
room, and a tall, striking-looking brunette in a dark red man- 
tle was standing before it with the air of a devotee. 

“ It is perfectly lovely, Mr. Ferguson,” she said, folding her 
slim hands together and looking at him with expressive eyes 
“ That girPs face is beautiful. I am sure it will haunt me.” 

“A girPs face will haunt one sometimes,” returned Mr. 
Ferguson, lightly, but there was a certain meaning in his tone, 
for the girl colored and turned away. “Estelle, have you 
some tea for Miss Graham ? I am going to fetch her some. 
Look, this chair will just suit you. Miss Graham,” dragging 
out a heavy, black carved Indian chair. “ It was good of you 
to enliven my studio with that choice bit of color,” with an 
approving glance at the mantle. “ One of these days I want 
you to sit to me for Eleanor in the scene with fair Rosa- 
mond.” 

Launcelot listened to this little conversation with inward 
amusement. Ferguson was hard hit, he thought, and cer- 
tainly Edna Graham was handsome enough to satisfy even 
an artistes fastidious taste ; and then he looked round the 
studio with its beautiful collection of cabinets and choice 
china. The curtains were real Utrecht velvet, costly skins 
lay on the dark, stained floor. Mrs. MacDonald poured out 
fragrant tea into lovely old Worcester cups. Ferguson had 
plenty of money, and his pictures always sold; and then 
Launcelot thought of poor Jack in his shabby coat, with that 
fixed, miserable look upon his face. “ Poor beggar, it doea 


52 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


seem hard,^^ he muttered, as he turned to the tea-table, and 
was welcomed by a beaming smile from the fair widow. 

It was late when he left Cheyne Walk, and Launcelot 
walked briskly to the station, and soon found himself en 
rout-e for Bichmond. When he arrived, he went to a quiet- 
looking hotel, and ordered a cutlet and a small bottle of claret, 
and while the cutlet was being cooked, he went to the bar to 
inquire for his telegram. It was handed to him at once. 
‘‘Quite correct — husband dying. Deserving case for our so- 
ciety — Bachel Thorpe. “ All right : I was sure of it,” was 
Launcelot’s internal comment, as he went back to the coffee- 
room. “ Tim, my lad, the chaplain has his work cut out for 
him ; it is time that father of yours gave up his companion 
the devil, — not a choice friend for a death-bed, Tim,” and he 
shook his head and prepared to enjoy his cutlet. 

It was a little after half-past eight when Nancy admitted 
him in her usual fashion, by slamming the street-door behind 
the visitor, and ducking her head in the direction of the 
parlor. “He's in, and I've just tooked tea away,” observed 
Nancy as she clattered down-stairs. 

Launcelot knocked gently, and then opened the parlor- 
door ; they had evidently not heard him. Jack was sitting 
before the fire with Dossie on his knee ; the child's arms were 
round his neck and her face buried on his shoulder. Some- 
thing in their attitude made Launcelot say to himself, “ He is 
going, and she knows it ;” but he came forward in his usual 
manner. 

“Halloa, Jack, are you both asleep?” he exclaimed, cheer- 
fully. 

“Dossie is going to sleep, I believe ” returned Jack, with 
an uneasy look in the child's face. “ You will ask Nancy to 
put you to bed, won't you, darling, — eh, what?” as Dossie 
whispered something in his ear. “Oh, yes, I will come and 
say good-night the last thing ; but you must be asleep — mind 
— there — shake hands with Launcelot. I declare, you were 
going to forget him altogether.” 

“Never mind, I will forgive her,” replied Launcelot, pat- 
ting the little hand kindly, but it went to his heart to see 
that she never raised her eyes or spoke to him, and that her 
hand lay loose and unresponsive in his. 

“She thinks it is my fault, — that I am robbing her of her 
father,” he thought, a little bitterly, for he could not bear 
to be misunderstood, even by a child ; and he watched her 
slow listless movements rather wistfully. She had not been 
crying, but she looked pale and heavy as though she were 
stunned. 

“Well,” drawing a long breath, as the door softly closed 
upon her retreating figure, “well. Jack?” 

“Oh, you know!” returned the other, in rather a forced 
manner. “That child's face has told you; she took it like 
a lamb, though, — never shed a tear. ‘Of course you know 


^^DOSSIE WILL NOT FORGIVE ME.^^ 


53 


best, father.^ Upon my word, I felt like that old patriarch, 
Abraham, when he was going to stick the knife into his lad's 
throat," went on Jack, with a miserable laugh ; “ it could not 
have been a pleasant business, but— but — there is no ram in 
the thicket for me." 

Launcelot put out his hand and grasped Jack. 

“ You are going, then?" 

“ Yes, confound it ! and confound you too ! Look here, 
Lance, I did not sleep a wink last night, — not a wink, — and 1 
never touched a drop until I had made up my mind; I just 
sat here and had it out with myself and Pen." 

Pen ?" looking at him narrowly, until his eyes grew misty 
and he was obliged to turu them away. 

“Ay, Pen, poor little sweetheart. I could see her plainly, 
but of course I am meaning no nonsense : she was sitting 
there, but it was only in my thoughts I could see her. She 
wore her little gray gown, and I could see her blue eyes look- 
ing at me, half gently, half sadly. 

“ ‘Be a good man, Jack, for Dossiers sake. She will soon 
have no one but you ; do your best for her, dear : make her as 
happy as you can.' Ah, I could hear those words quite 
plainly ; she really spoke them a few weeks before she died." 
ayes " 

“Well, I thought it all out, and your words seemed to hold 
me somehow ; you seemed to think Dossie was neglected and 
precocious : ‘ Do you think her mother would not be more 
content to know she was leading a regular healthy life ?' that 
was what you said. ‘ Do not mistake selfishness for love ; it 
is for Dossie's good that she should be left behind.' " 

“Well?" 

“Well, I believe you are right; it is selfishness. It just 
breaks my heart to part with the only creature in the world 
who loves me and never gives me a reproachful look. But it 
is for Dossie's good, and I mean to go ; I will see Neale to- 
morrow." 

“Jack, let me shake hands with you again. You are a fine 
fellow ! I — I — respect you." But Launcelot found it necessary 
lo stir the fire somewhat loudly after this. 

“Della wull look after the child, you say?" asked Jack, witn 
the pale glimmer of a smile at hearing such words applied to 
him. 

“Madella? I should think so. Listen to me a moment. 
Jack. My people are away, as you know, but they will be 
back soon ; Geoflrey is going to fetch them. I do not mean to 
write about things. You know of old how little fiurries Ma- 
della ; she would drive the girls and herself crazy in her hurry 
to get home. There is plenty of time ; at least, even if it comes 
to the worst, and you have to leave England before they are 
back, Dossie will be all right. I know some people, intimate 
friends of mine, who will look after the child ; and when 
Madella arrives, I will just take Dossie by the hand and say, 

5 * 


54 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


‘Jack has sent you his little girl, and he wants you to keep 
her until he comes back.^ Well,’^ with still greater animation, 
“can you see the tableau? Madella, with the tears running 
down her face, and Dossie in her arms: ‘Jack^s child ! oh, 
how I must love her for him.^ Why I can hear her say it. 
bless you. I know all Madella’s little ways by this time,^^ 
went on Launcelot, cheerfully, pretending not to see the tears 
standing in the poor fellow’s eyes. 

“ I wish I could have seen Della ; she was always kind. Do 
you think Neale would wait a little?” 

“ Oh, we will see about that to-morrow. There are heaps of 
things to be done: Neale to interview, outfit to be ordered, and 
a host of arrangements. Don’t trouble about Dossie. Miss 
Thorpe and her brother will look after her, and they live only 
two miles from the Witchens, so I could see Dossie every day 
and take her out. I do not want to write to Madella for fear 
Bee might make a fuss. Girls give a lot of trouble sometimes, 
and Bee is a bit meddlesome. ‘ Hold your tongue, miss, your 
mother will do as I tell her,’ that is how I manage Bee ; and 
my lady tosses her head, and never ventures to say a word. 
She is a good girl, is Bee, only she likes to have a finger in the 
pie.” 

Launcelot was rattling out nonsense to give Jack a chance 
of recovering himself, but by and by he said seriously, — 

“Jack, I am awfully obliged to you for not disappointing 
me. I could see no other way of helping you and Dossie. 1 
do believe with God’s blessing you will turn the corner now, 
and be a credit to us all. There, I won’t bother you any more 
to-night. Come up to the club to-morrow morning, and we 
will see Neale. Thorpe says we shall find him in any time 
from three to six ; you shall lunch with me, and we will go 
together. There is my card ; remember 1.30 sharp.” 

“Very well,” returned Jack, “I will look you up, if— if,” 
with a rueful smile, “you are not ashamed of my shabby 
coat,” but Launcelot’s reply to this was only a hearty grasp of 
the hand. 

“ Thank heaven that is over !” he muttered, as he walked 
briskly down the silent street; and then oddly enough he 
thought of the little cold hand that had lain so loosely in his. 

“ Dossie will not forgive me, I am afraid,” he said to himself 
rather sadly, as he turned into the station. 


iroiCES OF COMFORT, 


66 


CHAPTER VII. 

VOICES OF COMFORT. 

“Life’s more than breath, and the quick round of blood; 

*Tis a great spirit and a busy heart. 

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; 

In feelings, not in figures on a dial. 

We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives 

Who thinks most, feels the most, acts the best.”— 

Jack Weston was true to his word, and kept his appoint- 
ment most punctually, and as Launcelot saw him from the 
window of his club walking down St. Jameses Street, he felt 
that he should not be ashamed to be seen in his company 
anywhere. In spite of the old-fashioned cut of his coat, and 
that suspicious shininess about the seams, “ there was an air 
of indefinable distinction and good breeding about Jack that 
marked a gentleman, though perhaps, it might be added, a 
gentleman who had seen better days, and who was obviously 
on the shady side of life. 

When Launcelot went to bed that night he told himself 
that he was satisfied with his day^s work, and that Jack had 
shown a great deal of pluck. There is plenty of good stuff 
in him if one can only get it out,” he thought. I like a man 
who goes straight at a thing.” The interview with the Neales 
had been very satisfactory ; the younger brother Alfred had 
evidently taken to Jack at once. Indeed, Jack^s handsome 
face and careless good nature made him a general favorite. 
The two men were complete opposites. Alfred Neale was an 
awkward, high-shouldered man, with reddish hair, and a 
singularly plain face, but his voice was pleasant, and, in spite 
of a slight hesitation in his speech, there was something frank 
and agreeable in his manner that made people forget his de- 
fects. It was said of him that he never lost a friend or made 
an enemy, and Launcelot felt intuitively that he was one to 
be trusted. 

The business was soon settled, Launcelot putting in a word 
now and then. Jack, who had been very cool and collected 
the whole time, only once looked uneasy, when the younger 
Neale had asked if he could be ready to start in a fortnight’s 
time, but Launcelot had answered for him without a moment’s 
hesitation. 

“Oh, there will be no difficulty about that, Nicholson 
Wright will do the whole thing for us. I shall take Weston 
there to-morrow.” Then as Jack looked at him significantly 
he continued ; “ Oh, I wfill answer for it that my people will 
be back in ten days’ time. Geoff means to start to-morrow 


56 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


evening, and, as I told you, I can easily square matters with 
the Thorpes, and with this Jack seemed satisfied. 

But when they went out in the street together he said rather 
abruptly, ‘‘I must say Neale took me somewhat aback just 
now : l expected to have at least another month in England ; 
but when one has to make a painful wrench, it is as well to 
get it over,” and Launcelot agreed very heartily with this. 

Dossie had not once been mentioned between them, but just 
before they parted Launcelot asked after her. 

“ Oh, she does not say much, but she looks pale ; she looks 
very pale,” returned Jack, hurriedly. 

“ Poor little thing !” and then Launcelot added cheerfully, 
“ Look here, Jack, you must go to Singleton and have a good 
photograph taken, cabinet size, and we will put it in a smart 
frame, and give it to her by and by, and— and — ” frowning 
prodigiously, ‘‘there was a pug puppy I saw the other day. 
dear me, where was it? — a regular little beauty, and they said 
it was for sale. Oh, I know, Jim Barrett had it. I will go and 
have a look at it, and if it promises well we will get it for 
Dossie. A puppy will do more for her than all the consoling 
words in the world, eh ! ” looking at Jack in surprise, “ why 
are you breaking my wrist with that fist of yours ?” but Jack 
made no answer, his handshake was eloquent enough if only 
Launcelot had chosen to understand it. 

“ She shall have the puppy, poor little mite ! ” he muttered, 
and he made it his first business on the following day before 
he met Jack at the outfitter's, to go down to Jim Barrett and 
inspect the pug baby. 

There was plenty of occupation for Launcelot the next day ; 
he and Jack were on their feet from morning to night. He 
had to leave him to finish by himself at last, as he had to 
meet his brother Geoffrey at the club, — they had arranged 
to dine together before Geoffrey went off to the station. 

Launcelot was somewhat late, and found Geoffrey walking 
up and down the room chafing at the delay. 

“ This is too bad, Launce,” he said, impatiently, as Launce- 
lot hurried up with an apology. “ I shall have scarcely time 
to eat my dinner before the train starts.” 

“ You are always eating dinners, Geoff,” returned Launcelot, 
gravely, with an allusion to the duties of an embryo barrister. 
“My dear boy, there is plenty of time, and it could not be 
helped, I had such an awful lot of business to do.” 

“ Oh, yes, you are always so busy,” returned the other, in a 
quizzical voice ; and then they took their places at the table, 
And Launcelbt inspected the wine-carte with a gravity worthy 
of a better cause. 

The brothers were not much alike. Geoffrey was a fair, 
gentlemanly-looking young fellow, with rather a plain, clever 
face, but it lacked the animation and brightness that made 
Launcelot’s so attractive even to strangers. 

He was quieter and more reserved, and there was a curl of 


VOICES OF COMFORT. 


67 


the lip that could be satirical. In the family circle GeoflVey 
was regarded as a genius. He read a great deal, and was 
rather fond of airing his opinions. He had already written 
some clever articles for the “ Imperial Review, though no 
one knew of this fact but Launcelot and Mr. Thorpe. Launce- 
lot was immensely proud of him, and always took a snub 
from Geoffrey in good part. “Young cocks crow loudly, he 
would say; “Geoff will be more humble and think less of 
himself by and by. These clever boys have not learned to 
control their own forces ; he is practising on us beforehand, — 
getting his hand in for cross-examination.^^ And he never 
would own that his younger brother was wanting in respect 
to him. Perhaps, after all, he was judicious in his treatment, 
for though Geoffrey and Bernard teased him and laughed at 
him unmercifully they secretly adored him, and he had more 
influence over them than he knew. Launcelot was too busy 
and sweet-natured to assert authority, unless it were really 
necessary to do so ; but now and then he had spoken seriously 
and with much displeasure to one or the other of the boys, as 
he called them, though Geoffrey was four-and-twenty ; and 
then he had never spoken in vain. 

On the present occasion Geoffrey ^s sarcasm had been brief, 
and they had dined amicably together ; but when Launcelot 
accompanied his brother to the station he spoke a parting 
word or two. 

“Geoff, you will tell the mother I want her back as soon as 
possible. I am tired of my bachelor existence. 

“ All right. Any message to the girls 

“ Yes ; love to Pauline, and tell Bee not to be up to her non- 
sense ; no more dawdling in the Riviera — sharp^s the word 

“ Ah, sharp^s the word ; I'll be sure to tell Bee that." 

“And whisper to that monkey, Sybil, that I have got a 
great big doll being dressed for her, — nearly as big as herself, 
and she and Miss Rossiter will have to look after it. Oh, by 
the bye, kind regards to Miss Rossiter." 

“All right." 

“And Geoff, don't tell the mother about the chicken-pox 
and measles breaking out at Uppingham. Freckles has not 
had either, and he is coming home in ten days." 

“ Oh, of course ; I never meant to mention anything of the 
kind. We are moving, Launce — take care !" 

“ Good-by, old fellow ! Bring them all back as soon as pos 
sible." 

And Geoffrey nodded and took out his travelling cap. 
“What a fellow he is !" he said to himself ; “ he forgets noth- 
ing. Won't Sybil turn up her nose though when I tell her 
about the doll i" 

Early in the following week Launcelot had to call on a 
friend at Mortlake, and as it was still light when he had 
ended his visit, he thought he would walk over and see how 
matters were progressing at Wenvoe Road. He bad expected 


58 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


to find Jack at home, — he rather wanted to have a talk with 
him ; but he found Dossie alone. He had not seen her for 
nearly a week, not since that night when she would not look 
at him — and he saw a great change in her. 

She was sitting on the rug in front of the fire, evidently 
doing nothing, though she had an old coat of Jack^s lying 
across her lap, with a button half sewn on, and the needle 
stuck in the cloth. She had dwindled in those few days, 
Launcelot thought, and a sudden sense of terror and respon- 
sibility came over him. Her eyes were heavy, as though she 
had cried a good deal, and she looked ill and miserable. She 
got up and greeted Launcelot witliout a smile, with an old- 
fashioned womanly dignity that would have amused him 
under other circumstances, but now he only looked gravely 
into her sad little face. 

** Dossie, he said, detaining her for a moment, “you are 
not a bit glad to see me. How very, very angry you must be 
with me, to keep it up a whole week.^^ 

She colored, and snatched her hand away, but more with 
nervousness than temper. 

“You must not say that, Mr. Lance, her abbreviation of 
his name. “ I am not angry with you now. Father said I 
was not to be.^^ 

“ My dear little girl,” in rather a hurt voice, “ I think your 
father is far kinder to me than you are. You have really no 
cause to be angry with me,” but though he put his arm round 
her thin little shoulders and tried to draw her closer to him 
as he spoke, she resisted, and averted her face. 

“ You must not do that, Mr. Lance, for I have been very 
naughty, even father says I have been naughty. Oh, you 
don’t know,” as he gave a short laugh of incredulity. “ I told 
him over and over again that I hated you for taking him 
away, and I really meant it.” 

Launcelot heard this stoically, but he felt a slight pang at 
the child’s words ; it was disagreeable to be hated even by this 
scrap of humanity. 

“Am I taking your father away, Dossie? Is it my fault 
that he is poor and cannot sell his pictures?” 

“ We have always been poor,” she replied, trying to disen- 
gage herself from the hands that held her so firmly and 
kindly, but she was too gentle to do more than move uneasily 
in his grasp, and Launcelot would not set her free. “ We were 
always poor, — oh, ever since I was a baby, — and father did not 
mind it ; but__now you have asked him to go away with that 
horrid red-haired man, and he is going !” w’ith a sob. 

“ My child,” returned Launcelot, in a voice that soothed 
her in spite of her grief, “ you are too young and too ignorant 
to understand why this advice that seems so cruel to you is 
really the kindest and wisest advice in the world. If you 
loved your father half as well as he loves you, you would not 
hate me for helping him to go.” 


VOICES OF COMFORT. 


59 


“Oh, I do not hate you now,'^ rather shocked at this plain 
speaking, — it somehow sounded worse from Launcelot^s lips, — 
‘^only I cannot quite forgive you. Poor father does not want 
to go ; he is miserable, and I — oh, what shall I do, what shall 
I do and forgetting all her animosity, Dossie buried her 
face on his shoulder, and burst into a passion of tears. Launce- 
lot drew the unhappy little creature closer in his arms, and 
showed his wisdom and tact by letting her cry her heart out 
undisturbed by any reproof, but when she was calmer and 
able to listen he set himself to comfort her in good earnest. 
First he made her understand that in some strange inscrutable 
way it was for her father^s good that he should go away, that 
it made him very unhappy to be so poor, that they would not 
have bread to eat if he stayed in England. 

“Yes, but you are rich, father says so. You would not let 
us starve, observed Dossie, with a child's faith that a friend 
should be also a bread-giver. 

“ Child, child, you do not understand ; bread eaten at an- 
other man's expense would choke most of us. You must take 
my word for it, Dossie, until you are older, that father will be 
all the happier for going away." 

“ Without me ! Oh, no, Mr. Lance." 

“ But I say yes. Now, Dossie, do be quiet, like a good girl, 
and listen to me." And then he drew such an artful and 
glowing description of Jack's life in that unknown country, 
of how he would work to get money for Dossie, and how 
Dossie must grow big and strong and learn a great many 
things, that she might be able to preside over the beautiful 
little house he had got ready for her, “ not a house like this," 
looking round the shabby room with well-counterfeited dis- 
dain, “ but a dear little cottage with new carpets and curtains 
and lots of pretty furniture, and roses growing in the garden, 
and an arbor where father can smoke his pipe in the evening. 
And there must be some ivory chessmen that I may come over 
and play chess sometimes, and we will get Madella — that is 
the dear, dear mother who will take care of you while father 
is away — we must ask her, I say, to choose the prettiest tea 
set for you to make our tea in, and the teapot must be real 
silver and not Britannia metal." 

“Oh, yes," exclaimed Dossie, charmed into a moment's 
forgetfulness of her woe, and fixing her big eyes on him in 
rapt attention ; and it was then that the idea came into 
Launcelot's head that he would make a hasty sketch of the 
child and give it to Jack, but when he propounded this scheme 
to Dossie, she began to cry again so bitterly that he was puzzled. 

“ Oh, it is only because I said I hated j^ou, and you are 
really such a nice kind man," sobbed Dossie, with a penitent 
hug ; “ do please forgive me, Mr. Lance." 

“ Of course I forgive vou, my dear little girl. Well, we are 
friends now. I never could see why people need be cross be- 
cause they are unhappy ; it makes things so much harder," 


so 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


tinislied Launcelot, philosophically. It must be acknowledged 
that he certainly lived up to his philosophy, for he was rarely 
cross, except on principle, and in the most reasonable way. 
“Very well, Dossie, I will bring my palette and paints to- 
morrow, and you must brush your hair very nicely, and tell 
Nancy to get out the tangle ; it is such pretty hair if you 
'would only comb it and keep it tidy,^^ a piece of advice that 
made Dossie open her eyes ; her father never told her to 
brush her hair. 

This reconciliation was very satisfactory to Launcelot ; it 
would have pained him to be regarded as a sort of cruel 
fate in the child's eyes, an embodied fetish or Juggernaut 
of circumstance that was to stamp and crush out her happi- 
ness. The situation would not have suited him at all. He 
was very much interested in Dossie. She was by no means a 
pretty child, but she had expression and quaintness, and she 
nad sweet little ways with her that appealed to his soft side ; 
the thought of this small waif that would so soon be father- 
less touched him with a sort of pathos. She would be cast on 
him for protection, and he was beginning to realize that his 
impulsive generosity was adding a new responsibility to a life 
that was certainly not without its burthens. 

But Launcelot' s nature was expansive, it was always seek- 
ing new objects of interest ; his impulses were forever crowd- 
ing each other out ; he liked playing the part of a minor Prov- 
idence in other people's lives, and his sympathies seldom Lay 
long dormant. If he had lived in mediaeval times he would 
have been a zealous knight-errant; the rescue of distressed 
damozels, of oppressed childhood or old age, would have been 
work just suited to his peculiar temperament ; but as his 
honest kindly heart beat beneath the broadcloth and fine linen 
of the nineteenth century, he had to find other scope for his 
philanthropy. 

Launcelot brought down his color-box and soon produced 
two very pleasing sketches of Dossie, one of which he put 
away carefully in his portfolio. Jack almost broke down 
when he saw the little picture ; it was a mere sketch, but it 
was wonderfully true to the life ; the wide childish eyes looked 
troubled and inquiring, they always had this look now ; the 
lips had a sad curve, the little pale face was grave and un- 
smiling. “Oh, Dossie, why did you not smile?" exclaimed 
Jack, reproachfully; “is that the way you mean to look at 
your poor father when he has nothing but this picture to con- 
sole him?^but — but it is beautiful, it is my Dossie to the 
life I" and the big tears stood in Jack's eyes as he pored over 
his treasure. 

Dossie had been perfectly silent when the photograph in its 
handsome velvet frame had been placed before her, but her 
lips had turned white. For a moment she positively could 
not speak. “Is it for me ; is it my very own?" she faltered 
by and by. 


VOICES OF COMFORT. 


61 


“Yes, my pet; and it is Launoelot^s present to you. You 
must thank him, not me, Dossie.^' 

But to their surprise Dossie vshrank a little farther away. 

“ I can^t thank Mr. Lance, father, he is too kind. I want 
to do something for him my own self.^^ And now the tears 
ran down her face. 

“And so you shall; you shall do lots of things for me, 
Dossie,’^ returned Launcelot, cheerfully. He saw the childish 
heart was quite oppressed by its load of gratitude; other 
children would have been loud in their expression of ecstasy, 
but the delicacy conveyed in those few words touched him far 
more. “ I want to do something for him my own self,^^ rang 
in his ears the whole day afterwards. 

Dossie was a little puzzled by the next gift,— the pug puppy 
which arrived in Launcelot^s pocket about three days before 
Jack was to sail ; in fact, for the first few hours her feelings 
on the subject were sadly mingled, and her pleasure in the 
new possession was certainly not without alloy. 

It was a dear delightful puppy, and the sight of its black 
wrinkled nose was enough to distract any child. It was the 
loveliest, dearest, sweetest puppy she had ever seen ; but how 
was she to do her duty by it when she had all those buttons to 
sew on and all those things to pack? for Jack contrived small 
artful jobs to keep her busy most of the day. But now how 
was she to work with the puppy rolling on her lap, and everj 
now and then whining and trying to lick her face ; when the 
black muzzle and scratchy paws seemed everywhere ; when 
the sooty kitten gave him furtive dabs every time he passed 
her, and then sat up on end and spat at him ? There was so 
much valuable time lost in making peace between them, so 
much coaxing and petting before the puppy would consent to 
curl himself up and be quiet; but as she busied herself in 
making a comfortable bed on the sofa. Jack and Launcelot 
exchanged meaning glances full of satisfaction. 

Launcelot had looked rather grave when he arrived, and 
after the presentation of the infant pug he had had a long 
conversation with Jack in the window. 

“I told you so,^^ returned Jack, when he had heard all 
Launcelot had to say. “ I knew they would not be home in 
time.^^ 

“ It is no one^s fault; they are on their way,^^ was the eager 
reply. “It is only Bee^s sprained ankle that is detaining 
them. Silly girl, why need she have stepped on that piece of 
orange-meel? It is those confounded high-heeled boots of 
hers. Bee is so vain. Jack, I am awfully sorry about it, I am 
indeed ; but it is no one^s fault.” 

“ No, it is only my cursed ill-luck,” was the answer ; “ things 
never will turn up as I want them. I should like to have 
seen Della and asked her to be kind to Dossie. No offence to 
you, Launcelot, but I shviuld have gone away happier if I 
could have seen them together.” 

6 


62 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


“ Of course I know what you mean, and it is a horriblti 
nuisance ; but, Jack, you may trust me. I can answer for 
Madella as I can for myself ; that woman has never disap- 
pointed me. Look here, I have been down to see the Thorpes, 
and we have made all arrangements. Directly you start, I 
shall take Dossie over to Riversleigh and leave her with Miss 
Rachel, and then I shall be able to give you the last news of 
her. You can go on board and wait for me ; there will le 
plenty of time for me to do the thing nicely.” 

‘‘Thanks ; what a brick you are, Launcelot.” 

“ Then we will settle it so. Miss Rachel is fond of children, 
and she will be very good to Dossie, I know. I think we may 
expect Madella in about ten days’ time.” And then they had 
turned from the window and watched Dossie as she put her 
troublesome charge to bed. 

“ It will do : the little animal will give her plenty of work,” 
observed Launcelot in a low voice, and then he had sum- 
moned Dossie to a solemn conclave for bestowing a name on 
the puppy. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ OH, MY LITTLE CHILD, MY LITTLE CHILD !” 

“ Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west ; 

Toll softly I 

A.nd I smiled to think God’s greatness flowed round our incompleteness, 
Hound our restlessness His rest.” 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

Launcelot sacrificed a great deal of his time to Jack’s ser- 
vice. He paid frequent visits to Wenvoe Road, and his tact 
and shrewd common sense smoothed many a difficulty, and 
made those last few days less unbearable to both father and 
child. A little judicious sympathy, a few words of encour- 
agement, did much to put heart in Jack. The idea of making 
a fresh beginning, of breaking off old habits, of atoning for 
past mistakes, was nerving him for the parting. Launcelot’s 
generosity made him feel himself a debtor. “ Whatever hap- 
pens, I must not disappoint him,” was his one thought. 

Launcelot was not the man for half-measures. Geoffrey 
always said of him that he rode a hobby to death, and though 
this was an exaggeration it was nevertheless true that Launce- 
lot threw himself into any new pursuit or fresh interest with 
a zest and self-absorption that rendered himself oblivious 
of everything else for the time. He liked to go straight at a 
thing and carry it through. It was this that made him such 
a valuable ally. People who needed help, and whose cause 
he had espoused, never felt that his interest flagged or his 
sympathy failed them until he had got their heads above 


“Oir, MY LITTLE CHILD, MY LITTLE CHILDS 63 


water. “Now you feel the ground firm under your feet, and 
you must shift for yourself and if he did not exactly say 
these words, he certainly acted up to the spirit of them. 

One of his numerous prot6g6s whom he had thus helped to 
find his foot-hold once said to him, reproachfully, “You take 
far less interest in me, Chudleigh, now that I am a decent fel- 
low, and when other people are just beginning to remember 
my existence, than when I was an unlucky beggar going 
down-hill as fast as I could. 

“You are wrong,^^ returned Launcelot, with a friendly 
smile; “I shall always take interest in you, only you neea 
me less, and there are others who need me more.^^ 

When the last day came Launcelot carefully kept aloof 
from Wenvoe Road. “ Dossie must have you all to herself to- 
morrow ; I shall not come near you,^^ he had said to Jack the 
preceding night, and the other had quietly acquiesced in this. 
Jack thought that long, dreary day would never pass, and yet 
he treasured every minute as though he were a miser counting 
out his gold. 

It was one of those hopelessly wet days, when from morn- 
ing to night the gray overcharged clouds showed no doubt of 
their meaning : when the silent, continuous rain fell without 
pause or intermission. Jack regarded the prospect ruefully, 
and his heart felt like lead in his breast. He had meant to take 
Dossie for a last walk. He thought he could have got through 
the hours better in the open air, but he found himself kept an 
enforced prisoner. “ We must make the best of it,” he mut- 
tered, as he turned from the window ; and then he called 
Dossie to help him with his packing, and they were both ex- 
ceedingly busy for the rest of the morning. It may be doubted 
whether Dossie was much help, but he liked to see her little 
fingers smoothing out his ties, or laboriously carrying the 
heaviest articles she could find. When there was nothing 
else she could do she stood beside him— with Beppo, the pug 
puppy in her arms — watching him as he rammed down his 
coats and shirts. “What lots of things ! How clever you are, 
father, to get them all in !” sighed Dossie, when the last port- 
manteau was packed. 

Jack hardly knew how they got through the afternoon ; he 
smoked a pipe or two, and watched Beppo and the kitten at 
their play, and he walked up and down the room with Dossie 
hanging to his arm, and told her a great deal about the life 
he should lead, and about the plants and the trees, or any 
little fact he had gleaned about the country, and Dossie listened 
as though it were a new gospel and everything depended on 
her not losing a word, and at tea-time he pretended to be very 
cheerful, and to enjoy the hot buttered toast that Dossie had 
prepared, and he would eat it although he felt as if every 
mouthful would choke him. Dossie wielding the heavy 
Britannia metal teapot with both hands as usual, and ab- 
sorbed in her labors of love, hardly saw the long wistful 


64 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


glances that rested on lier face, but though she fed the puppy 
she scarcely tasted food herself. 

“ I am not hungry, father. I think it makes me feel sick 
even to look at things,” she said, when he pressed her to eat, 
and then the tears came into her eyes, and he did not venture 
to say more. But when tea was over there was no more pre- 
tence at cheerfulness or any more talk about that strange far- 
off country, but as Jack lifted the child on his knee and felt 
the tight clasp of her arms round his neck, a sort of puzzled 
sadness came over his face, for the time was growing very 
short now, and there were words that he ought to say to Dos- 
sie that were very diflicult to be spoken. He had an idea that 
he ought to give her sound fatherly advice, and to speak words 
of wisdom that she might treasure up when he had gone ; he 
must do what other fathers would have done in his case ; if 
only he could think what to say. 

“ Dossie dear,” he began at last, when the silence had lasted 
a long time, “I think you and I ought to have a little talk 
together.” 

“Yes, father,” but Dossie did not move; she had got one 
hand entangled in the long beard, and now she tightened her 
hold a little. 

“ I want you to promise me something, pet,” but to his con- 
sternation Dossie interrupted him in a most pitiful voice. 

“Ah, no, father— please— please — do not make me promise 
— anything but that, father dear.” 

“But, my darling ” 

“Oh father, please don’t,” still more plaintively; “it is 
hard enough without that, and it will only make it so much 
w'orse. Don’t make me think I am naughty every time I 
fret ; you want me to promise not to fret when you are gone, 
but ah, how dreadful that would be, for if I cry, — and I must 
cry, — I shall think now I am disobeying father and breaking 
my promise, and that will make it so much worse.” 

“Well, well,” kissing the little pleading face, “I will not 
ask you to promise ; but, Dossie, I must say something. If 
you want to please me, if you want to make me less miserable, 
you will write and tell me that you are happy.” 

“ I must not say it if it is not true, father, must I?” 

“No, no; for heaven’s sake be your mother’s child, and 
always speak the truth,— the truth, Dossie, before everything ; 
but you can make it true, my darling : you can say to your- 
self, I will be happy for father’s sake, because he never likes 
me to be sad7 and then the happiness will come.” 

“Will come,” echoed Dossie, in mild parrot fashion, but 
her face belied her words ; a child’s present misery never, 
grasps the idea of future alleviation ; now is forever, time is 
eternity, there are no possible horizons to a child’s grief, the 
prospect presents a blank. 

“And you will be a good child,” went on Jack, pausing 
over his words as his difficulty about the good advice grew 


«0^, MY LITTLE CHILD, MY LITTLE CHILD 66 


greater. Dossie could not help him here. She could hardly 
read his thoughts at this crisis ; and yet Jack was longing 
ardently to do his duty to his motherless child. 

“ I will try, father,^ in the same automatic voice. 

** And — and you will alwa;^ say your prayers and read your 
Bible — your dear mother^s Bible that I gave you, Dossie. I 
am afraid^ ^ — in a conscience-stricken voice — “that I ought to 
have read to you more, but I never had time.’^ 

“Oh. but you did read to me,’^ returned Dossie, rousing at 
this. “ Don^t you remember, father, when I had the measles 
you read Joseph and his brethren and Daniel in the lions^ den, 
— oh, and about Goliath, too. I remember we were in the 
little cottage at Slough, and there were no books, and you 
were afraid I was dull ; oh, I did enjoy it so ; you read beauti- 
fully, and I know I cried over that poor Joseph ; ol^ I know 
the Bible well,^^ finished Dossie, contentedly; “I always 
listen at church, and one hears a lot that way.’^ 

“Yes, but you do not know your Catechism : Della will be 
shocked at that,^^ replied Jack, with a sigh. He was afraid 
he was very much to blame ; he had never taught Dossie that 
she had to renounce the world, the fiesh, and the devil, or to 
keep her hands from picking and stealing. He had expected 
her to grow up good without example or precept ; now and 
then he had bidden her never to forget her prayers, and he 
had been careful to take her to church every Sunday, though 
his inclinations would have kept him away ; but when she 
had questioned him about what the preacher meant, he had 
been obliged to confess that he never listened to sermons. 

“I wonder why people preach them, then?’^ returned 
Dossie, in perfectly good faith: “perhaps they want to do 
themselves good, only it is a pity they talk so loud and tire 
themselves if no one listens. 

“I am afraid Della will be shocked at your ignorance,^^ 
went on Jack. “Your aunt Della believes in the Catechism 
and that sort of thing ; she is an awfully good woman. Dossie, 
I want you to be a good child to her and try and love her. 
She was very kind to me, and I gave her a lot of trouble. 
Look here,^^ — and Jack^s tone became impressive, — “ I want 
you to say something for me. You must not forget, Dossie. 
You must say to her, ‘ Aunt Della, I am Jack’s little girl, and 
he wants you to love me. You were very good to him when 
he was a little boy, and he knows you will be good to me, and 
—and he sends his love.’ Now repeat this after me.” Dossie 
repeated the words obediently ; then she said, — 

“ I will not forget, father ; I will say them every word, and 
if I am very much frightened I will shut my eyes. Is Aunt 
Della a very nice lady ? Why have we not seen her ?” 

“ Because — because it is my fault. She was good to me, 
and I treated her badly, and so she never knew Pen and as 
Dossie opened her eyes rather widely at this confession, he 
went on, hurriedly, — 
e 


6 * 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 




** Never mind how it all happened, darling. I am sure, 
quite sure, you will soon love your aunt Della ; she is a sweet 
woman, and Launcelot is devoted to her. Launcelot will be 
your friend too.^^ 

“Yes, father, and I like him very much ; he is so trustable^^ 
—one of Dossiers favorite expressions. 

Jack smiled. 

“ So he is, my pet, so he is. Trustable, that just expresses 
it. Why, I am a lucky fellow after all, Dossie. I shall say to 
myself very often, * Here I am working hard to make a home 
for my little girl ' 

“That is the house that Jack built, father, interrupted 
Dossie, quaintly. 

“Yes, and the bricks shall be hard shining sovereigns, all 
saved for Dossie to spend, and when I look at tliem I shall 
say, ‘ There is my little girl in England growing up to be a 
wise, sweet woman, getting all ready for her old father when 
he comes home a rich man.^ 

“ Shall you soon get rich, father V' 

“Why, of course, trying to joke. “What am I going all 
that way for except to pick up gold and silver off that mighty 
Tom Tiddler^s ground and then, checking himself with a 
sigh, “but I shall not stay to grow over-rich • we don^t want 
much, do we, Dossie ? just a little place to hold our two selves 
and a garden where I can smoke my pipe of an evening, and 
where you can grow all your fiowers.^^ 

“ Lupins, and stocks, and marigolds ; do let us have mari- 
golds, I am so fond of them.^^ 

“Oh, of course; ‘golden bells and cockle shells, and mari- 
golds all in a row.^ I can smell your flowers now.^^ 

“Oh, how nice,^^ replied Dossie. “I must grow up quick, 
or I shall not be tall enough to be your housekeeper and for 
a few blissful moments her imagination bridged over the years 
of separation and anticipated the reunion, but the next 
minute she shivered and grew pale. 

“You must not talk any more, darling,^^ observed Jack, 
anxiously. “ It is time for you to go to bed, I think,’^ — coun- 
terfeiting an excellent yawn. “ I am rather sleepy myself. 
You see we shall have to get up early, and, — as Dossie, in no 
way deluded by this sudden fatigue, only clung to him with 
mute entreaty,— “ if you will be good and go now, I will come 
and sit by you till you go to sleep and comforted by the 
thought that her dark hours would be soothed by that beloved 
presence, Dossie as usual went off obediently. 

Jack never knew how long he sat in that dark garret listen- 
ing to the rain beating on the roof. Dossiers two little hands 
clasped his arm, her hot face lay against his shoulder. She 
was not crying, he was sure of that, for he could see her eyes 
staring into the darkness, but he dared not speak to her lest 
the flood-gates should open, and she was so young and weak 
that he feared any more agitation for her. 


“O-ff, MY LITTLE CHILD, MY LITTLE CHILD r 67 

Shut your eyes, darling, he whispered, and she had closed 
them at once, but it was hours before he could hear the meas- 
ured breathing that told him the worn-out child had fallen 
asleep, before he dared to move his cramped arm and steal on 
tip-toe from the room. 

There was something heroic in the way he had combated 
his restlessness, and had restrained any expression of weari- 
ness. He felt he would rather die than loosen those little 
hands that held him so fast. 

‘‘Father sat by me in the dark nearly all night, Dossie 
said, some months afterwards, when she and Launcelot were 
spending their Sunday evening on the terrace at the Witchens 
held him tight ; I was so afraid he might leave me, but he 
stayed — oh, ever so long.^^ 

Launcelot was leaning on the low wall, looking out on a 
placid scene, a heath bathed in the mellow light of a harvest 
moon. The little episode touched him ; the thought of the 
poor prodigal sitting patiently by his child’s bedside. “ It is 
like a parable,” he mused ; “I suppose the Almighty Father 
watches His human children just in that way. All one has 
to do is to cling, — hold tight, as she says, — but when the dark- 
ness comes, one lets go. Yes, that is the pity of it — one lets 
go.” 

As Launcelot drove up in his hansom the next morning, he 
felt he had an unpleasant business before him. “ It seemed to 
me as though I had to shepherd some bleating lamb whose 
mother had gone to the butcher’s,” he observed afterwards to 
Miss Thorpe. 

Nothing ruffled Launcelot’s equable nature so much as the 
idea of a scene. These disturbed phases of human emotion 
were always classed in his mind with volcanic eruptions, 
earthquakes, cataclysms, and other violent agencies of nature. 

In spite of his impulsive and sensitive temperament, he had 
a toum of the stoic about him ; if he suffered, he wrapped 
his mantle round him like an old Roman, and suffered 
silently. In Jack’s place he would have spared himself and 
the child the prolonged agony of parting, he would have left 
her sleeping and stolen from the house ; but Jack’s soft nature 
was not capable of such sublime effort as this. 

“Let me keep her until the last minute,” he pleaded. 
“ You shall take her away before my luggage is put on the 
cab, but you must not begrudge me this last hour and of 
course Launcelot could say no more. 

But he doubted Jack’s wisdom when he entered the room. 
The child was enduring agony ; he could see that. She was 
dressed in her little cloak and hood-bonnet which always 
transformed her into a little Puritan. She had been calm 
until she heard the hansom drive up, and then she had flung 
herself into her father’s arms and was holding him with all 
her childish force, and nothing would induce her to lift her 
head. 


68 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


Jack looked up with a mute entreaty for help ; he saw his 
mistake now, and Launcelot was not slow to respond. 

“Oh,’^ he said, cheerfully, “Dossie is bidding you good-by, 
is she ? Very well, she must be quick about it. I see your 
cab coming round the corner. Jack, and you will have to look 
sharp and help the man with all those traps ; you have only 
ten minutes to do everything. 

‘‘Do you hear what Lance says, my darling?’^ said Jack, 
huskily, but he spoke to deaf ears. Dossie was past listening 
now ; they both spoke to her, but in vain ; and then Launce- 
lot made a sign that he would take her out of her father^ s 
arms. Jack understood him. “One moment— give me one 
moment,^ ^ he said : and then, almost roughly, he drew back 
the child’s head and covered the little white face with pas- 
sionate kisses. “ Oh, my little child, my little child !” Launce- 
lot heard him groan, as very firmly but tenderly he unloosed 
Dossiers grasp, and lifted her up. 

He felt her struggle for a moment, almost convulsively, in 
his grasp. “Dossie,” he said, quietly, “you must not make 
your father so unhappy ; be a good child, and try to bear it 
and she was quiet in a moment. 

But it went to his heart to see how she shrank from him 
when he tried to draw her closer to him in the cab ; no one 
should comfort her for her father’s loss, that is what her action 
said to him. He had the tact to leave her alone, only now 
and then he touched the little listless hand, but his pressure 
was not returned. 

“ She is tasting the bitterness of death,” he said to himself, 
and once when the cab stopped in a crowded thoroughfare, 
he leaned forward and peered under the little hood-bonnet. 
She was shedding no tears, but the sick white look of childish 
despair appalled him. 

“ If she live until she is an old woman, she will never live 
through a worse moment,” he thought. “Thank God, w^ 
shall have a woman to help us soon ; the child must have 
some relief, or she will never weather this.” 

Launcelot thought that long drive would never have an 
end. “ Are you not very tired, Dossie ?” he said once, tryiug 
to break the silence between them, but she only shook her 
head. 

But it was a relief when the cab turned into the quiet se- 
cluded corner where the Thorpes lived ; it was called Priory 
Road, but Mr. Thorpe always spoke of it as the Close. 

It was a strangely quiet little corner, a terrace of old-fash- 
loned houses standing back in narrow strips of gardens, and 
a little farther on was the large roomy vicarage. 

A low white house adjoined the picturesque almshouses and 
the pretty quaint garden with its rustic seats, and at the other 
end was the beautiful church, with its gray old tower and 
lime walk and peaceful churchyard. 

It was a beautiful snot and one that Launcelot loved 


MY LITTLE CHILD, MY LITTLE CHILDS 69 


Often had he and Mr. Thorpe strolled up and down the 
churchyard. Sometimes they would linger under the limes^ 
and Launcelot would look up at the gray old church, and then 
feast his eyes on the quaint lovely old almshouses. “ You are 
right to call it the Close, Thorpe,’^ he would say ; “ it has just 
the same sleepy, reverent aspect that one sees in a cathedral 
close ; the wicked world lies outside ; a sort of sabbath still- 
ness breathes over the place. The church is always open, you 
say ; good — very good ; one could learn to pray here. Look at 
tlie sunset behind those trees, Thorpe, and the gleam of that 
water. The almshouse windows are shining like gold, and 
the peaked roofs are so clearly defined under that pink sky. 
What a glow ! what coloring ! how good of those two old 
women in their black poke bonnets to add life to the scene ; 
my dear fellow, I could rhapsodize for hours. 

“Better not, as Rachel is waiting dinner for us,^^ Mr. 
Thorpe w’ould perhaps say ; he would often silence Launce- 
lot^s artistic raptures with some such chilling response, but in 
reality his heart clave to the place with a strength of attach- 
ment that would have surprised his friend. 

“ It is just the place for a tired man. I should like to die 
here, Rachel, he had once said, but Rachel had scouted this 
idea with some energy. She was a woman who talked and 
thought more of living than dying ; she always said the first 
was every one^s business, and the second belonged to no one. 
“If we live well, that is all that can be expected of us.^^ She 
would add, “ Dying, well that is not in our hands at all ; we 
must die as God wills.^^ 

Miss Thorpe was standing at the open door when the cab 
drove up. She looked trim and alert in her neat black gown, 
— Miss Thorpe always wore black, and dressed in the plainest 
fashion ; her hair was drawn slightly from her face, and 
showed the wide benevolent forehead. 

Her eyes glistened a little as Launcelot carried in the weary 
child and placed her in Miss Thorpe’s arms. 

“ Poor little dear,” she said, in her quiet voice, and she un- 
tied the hood, and looked kindly into the woe-begone little 
face. “ So father has gone, poor father ! but he will soon 
come back again and somehow those few simple words 
broke down Dossie’s unnatural calm. 

“Oh, my father, my father !” she sobbed, clinging to Miss 
Thorpe of her own accord. 

Miss Thorpe looked at Launcelot significantly. 

“ Let her cry, it will do her good,” her eyes seemed to say , 
then aloud, “Mr. Chudleigh, will you ask the man to bring 
in the little girl’s box,— my maids are busy, — and then Dossie 
and I will go up-stairs. I know we must not keep you now, 
but you will be back in time for dinner.” 

“ Oh, yes ; you will probably see me before that. It is not 
half-past ten yet, there is no need to say good-by,” and with 
a swift look at Dossie, whose little frame was now quivering 


70 ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 

with sobs, he entered the cab again and was driven rapidly 
away. 

I always thought she was a good woman, but I did not 
know she had a way like that with her,^^ he said to himself, 
thinking of Miss Thorpe ; but I suppose most women have 
the maternal instinct, it is born with them ; but, somehow, 
if I were a child, and an unhappy one, I could not fancy my- 
self clinging to Miss Thorpe, certainly not if Madella were 
anywhere near. I believe I worship that woman, finished 
r^auncelot, with an odd little smile. 


CHAPTER IX. 

RACHEL THORPE. 

“ Be hopeful ; make allowances ; put yourself in other people’s places ; 
avoid both the stoical and epicurean extremes ; be neither sinner nor 
pharisee, and you have secured the safest and pleasantest prong of our 
three-cornered dilemma.” — Three-Comei'ed Essays. 

It was not surprising that Launcelot looked utterly fagged 
and weary when he drove up to the door of No. 8 Priory Road, 
that afternoon. He had passed two very trying hours with 
Jack, on board, walking up and down the deck. Jack had 
utterly broken down at last ; the thought of the long years 
before he should see England and Dossie again deprived him 
of all courage. ‘‘ I donT feel as though I could go through 
with it,^’ he muttered more than once. 

Launcelot did not despise Jack for this faint-heartedness, — 
he should have felt the same in his place, he thought ; he did 
not harass him either with well-meant but mistaken cheerful- 
ness, as most people would have done, trying to distract him 
from his misery by judicious aphorisms and truisms, that 
would have been an affront to his understanding ; on the 
contrary, he walked beside him, keeping pace with his restless 
strides, and scarcely speaking at all until some fretful word 
jn Jack’s part compelled answer. 

“ Poor dear fellow,” he thought, when at last he had quitted 
the gangway and Jack, with haggard face, leaned over to see the 
last of him. I am afraid it will go hard with him for a long 
time,” and he ate his luncheon sadly, and took a stroll in the 
park, but the painful recollection was still strong on him when 
he dismissed his cab and rang at the bell of No. 8 Priory Road. 
Regarded from the outside it was hardly a cheerful-looking 
abode. The projecting wall of the white house closed it on 
one side ; the house itself was high and narrow, with old- 
fashioned windows that belonged to the period in which it 
was built, and no new-comer would have guessed the exceed* 
ing pleasantness of the interior. 


RACHEL THORPE. 


71 


The study would be empty about this hour, so Launcelot 
went at once to the drawing-room, where Miss Thorpe was 
generally to be found in her leisure hours. It was a charming 
room, with cosey nooks about it, and Launcelot, who had 
spent many pleasant evenings with the brother and sister, 
was wont to declare that he knew of no pleasanter one. The 
furniture was arranged with a view to comfort, and the large 
easy-chairs were placed just at the right angle from the fire, 
with a glass screen to temper the heat. 

Miss Thorpe was sitting in her favorite high-backed chair 
oy the fire. It was one of her characteristics never to indulge 
in one of those soft lounging-chairs so much affected by the 
modern woman. A small square low table stood beside her, 
and the little brass kettle hissed and spluttered cheerfully on 
its trivet. A great black cat lay asleep on the tiger-skin rug. 
Launcelot thought it all looked very cosey. 

Miss Thorpe looked up with the smile with which she always 
greeted her favorite. 

‘‘That is right, she said, cordially I hardly expected 
you so soon, but I am delighted to see you. How tired you 
look, Mr. Cnudleigh. Draw up that big easy-chair close to 
the table, and I will give you a cup of tea. I am sure you 
deserve it, for you have worked like a horse all day.^’ 

Launcelot received the cup of tea gratefully, but before he 
tasted it he asked after Dossie. 

“Poor little dear,^^ returned Miss Thorpe, and a shade 
passed over her fine face. “ I have had a sad time with her. 
It is very trying to see a child in such trouble ; somehow it 
seems unnatural. I thought she would have cried her heart 
out when you had gone. I hardly knew what to do with her, 
but I am thankful to say the outburst has exhausted her, and 
she and the puppy are both asleep on the big couch in my 
room. When she wakes up I shall put her to bed ; she is 
utterly spent, and fit for nothing else.^^ 

Launcelot looked grave at this account. “ She is unusually 
sensitive for a child of her age. I am afraid she is almost too 
delicately organized. I hope you induced her to take some 
food ; she has been starving herself lately. 

“ She would have it that she could not eat, but I made her 
swallow a cup of strong broth. The puppy had his dinner ; 
she actually roused herself to feed it. I shall coax her to take 
some bread and milk when she wakes, poor child ; one must 
be a little firm with her, though she seems docile by nature. 

“ I am afraid you can hardly judge of her to-day ; she is an 
interesting little creature, gentle, yet with plenty of origi- 
nality, certainly an uncommon child. I wonder if you have 
found this out?^^ 

“Oh, children always interest me,^^ was the somewhat 
evasive answer. “ Ivan and I like to have a child about us. 
1 am a little doubtful whether he will find Dossie interesting. 
He likes high-spirited, merry children, and I should fancy 


72 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


Dossie is always rather sedate, and then she is not what you 
would call an attractive child. 

‘‘You mean pretty ; well, no, Dossie is certainly not pretty, 
but she has good points, as I found out when I made thai 
sketch. She is pale, but her complexion is good, and she has 
a lovely dimple, and I never saw more expressive eyes, they 
seem to tell so much, and I think a great deal could* be done 
with her hair.” 

Launcelot spoke quite seriously ; he had begun to think 
Dossie had a nice little face, and it was one of his idiosyncra- 
sies never to criticise what he loved, and he had grown very 
fond of the poor child. Miss Thorpe^s remarks rather hurt 
him, and yet she had carefully modified her opinion out of 
respect to his feelings ; in reality, she thought Dossie a very 
plain little girl, and she was sure her brother would not take 
to her. 

She smiled now in an amused way that rather nettled him, 
so he said somewhat shortly, — 

“ I hope it will not bore you having her here. I am afraid 
the poor little thing may give you a great deal of trouble.” 

“Oh, I don^t mind trouble,” was the cheerful response. 
“ That sort of thing comes into the day^s work. We are put 
into the world to help other people. Dossie shall have every 
care, if it were only for your sake, Mr. Chudleigh, and we 
shall find a way to comfort her, I hope, before long. Ivan 
understands children, and they are always happy with him. 
By the bye, if you have finished your tea and feel more rested, 
I want to have a little talk with you about Ivan,” and, as he 
put down his empty cup and looked at her inquiringly, she 
continued, in her quiet, impressive voice, “Ivan told me last 
night that he had spoken to you about his unlucky marriage. 
I always wanted him to do so, but ho found it so difficult to 
open tile subject ; but I am glad, very glad, that you know.” 

“Why?” was Launcelot^s sole response to this ; he felt the 
monosyllabic reply was unsatisfactory, but it was all that 
occurred to him, but Miss Thorpe had *her answer ready. 

“ Need you ask ?” she returned, quickly. “ Mr. Chudleigh, 
you do not know how much I am depending on you. This 
friendship is the finest thing that has happened to Ivan foi 
vears. Nothing has interested him so much since his wife left 
him ; it has roused him and made him a different man.” 

“His wife^s loss is making him still unha^y, then ?” asked 
Launcelot. He was very anxious for Miss Thorpe^ s answer, 
but it struck Irim that she evaded the question. 

“Of course he feels his position bitterly ; his temperament 
was never very gay, but there is no need for him to shut him- 
self up as though he were a hermit, — at his age it is absurd, — 
but he always says he cannot mix with people unless they 
know he is a married man ; and he would rather keep to him- 
self than tell his story. It is on this point that I want your 
help, Mr. Chudleigh.* My influence will not avail here, and I 


RACHEL THORPE. 


73 


am looking to you to rouse him from this morbid state, and 
induce him to re-enter society.” 

“ You must not depend on me too much. I have never been 
able even to induce him to dine with us at the Witchens.” 

That was because he had not told you about Joan ; it will 
be different now. We talked about it last night, and he owned 
he had no objection to your people knowing the bare facts of 
the case. He dreads idle gossip, and on Joanns account he 
wishes to keep it quiet ; but I managed to extract a sort of 
promise that for the future he would not refuse your invita- 
tions.” 

** I am glad you have told me this, Miss Thorpe. Your 
brother made me understand that it must be a sealed subject 
between us, and, though it is not a pleasant thing to say, you 
know the world so well that I am sure you will not miscon- 
strue my meaning when I say that with young sisters, and 
both of them attractive girls, I could hardly introduce a 
married man under the guise of a bachelor.” 

Ko, you are quite right. It is always best to be open in such 
cases. Ivan is so indifferent to women that he never thinks 
of this. I am very anxious that Ivan should visit at the 
Witchens. I think it will be the opening for greater sociality ; 
but all the same I would recommend you to state the case 
clearly to your step-mother, and see if she has any objection.” 

** Oh, of course. I always tell Madella everything.” 

“ And you are guided by her advice?” 

“ Well, no. I think it is the other way about ; she is guided 
by mine. When I tell her things, she always says, ‘ What 
is your opinion, Lance and that settles it.” 

“In that case you know her answer beforehand.” But 
Launcelot would not allow this ; he always talked things 
over with her, and their opinions never clashed ; he had never 
known her decide anything without him. Bee, his eldest 
sister, often influenced her in his absence, but when he came 
back Bee went to the wall. 

Miss Thorpe was a little puzzled by all this. 

“ Perhaps I ought to ask you then if you have any objection 
to Ivan meeting your sisters?” but Launcelot only laughed 
in reply. 

“ I shall be delighted to introduce Thorpe, and should not 
be afraid of trusting him if I had twenty sisters. Bee and 
Pauline will only pity him and call him poor fellow, and as 
for Madella, she will be ready to move heaven and earth to 
bring him and his wife together again. By the bye. Miss 
Thorpe, may I ask you a question ? Why did your brother 
fall in love with her if she were so unlikely to suit him ?” 

Launcelot often asked questions that would be impertinent 
on any one else^s part, but no one ever took offence. Miss 
Thorpe seemed to think his curiosity quite natural ; he and 
Ivan were close friends, and it was only right that he should 
know all the ins and outs of this wretched business. She 
D 7 


74 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


rather wished to tell him herself ; he would then have a plain 
unvarnished statement of facts and no exaggeration, ana she 
answered with the utmost readiness, though with a slight 
shrug of the shoulders, ‘‘Why do men do foolish things? 
Ivan is not the only sensible man who has fallen in love with 
an attractive face and pleasing manners. Gentlemen always 
admired Joan ; she was very taking, as they said, though I 
never agreed with them ; she was too Irish for my taste. 

“ Do you mean she is Irish?” 

“Yes, on the father^s side; he was one of those impulsive 
hot-tempered Irishmen that one dreads to have much to do 
with. Oh, I will allow Joan had her advantages ; her mother 
died when she was a baby, and she was only fourteen when 
she was left an orphan, and the aunt who brought her up was 
one of those worldly, scheming women that have so bad an 
influence on girls. I do not believe she had any love for Ivan. 
She always said her aunt persuaded her to marry him because 
she was so poor ; but still, any other woman would have 
learned to love him when she came to see how good he was.” 

“ That is what Madella sometimes tells the girls, — that love 
often comes after marriage.” 

“ She might at least have done her duty to him, one would 
have thought : common gratitude for his kindness and con- 
sideration would have kept her from quarrelling with his 
sister and making his home miserable,” and here Miss Thorpe^s 
mouth grew stern, “ but from the first Joan set herself against 
me.” 

“ Were you or your sister-in-law the mistress of the house?” 
asked Launcelot, quietly. “Excuse a seemingly rude ques- 
tion, Miss Thorpe, but you are admitting me to peculiar privi- 
leges, and I know how much depends on these little feminine 
matters.” 

“Oh, I don't mind the question. I want you to see exactly 
how we are circumstanced ; of course I knew my place, — the 
sister had to give way to the wife. Joan had the head of the 
table, and the keys. I gave no orders after she entered the 
house ; was it my fault, Mr. Chudleigh, that she knew noth- 
ing about household management, that everything was out 
of gear in a week, and that both the servants gave warning ? 
When Ivan complained, I refused to listen to him ; it was no 
longer my province to interfere.” 

“I think you showed very good sense in this.” 

“Indeed, I think you would have no reason to find fault 
with me unless you thought it wrong for me to remain in the 
house ; but Ivan and I had never been separated. I had no 
other home, and indeed he never wished to part with me ; 
when Joan asked him to choose between us he refused to listen 
to her, and to turn his only sister out of the house.” 

“ Do you mean she wished you to go ?” 

“ I suppose so. I know she told Ivan over and over again 
that she could not live with me that I chilled and misunder- 


RACHEL THORPE. 


75 


stood her, that it was bringing ice and fire together ; she was 
always making those exaggerated speeches. The scenes grew 
intolerable at last, — even Ivan could no longer put up with 
them. Joan had the most passionate, undisciplined nature ; 
it wore out his patience at last.^^ 

Launcelot leaned his chin on his hand, and seemed to cogi- 
tate for a moment ; then he said, in a cool sort of voice, — 

“It is always an experiment bringing a third person to 
share the home of a young couple ; it requires peculiar tact 
and very nice discrimination to steer clear of concealed quick- 
sands. I rather hold myself to the good old words, ‘ that a 
man should leave his father and mother,^ all his belongings in 
fact, ‘ and cleave to his wife there are always dangerous in- 
gredients difficult to fuse in a mixed household. 

Miss Thorpe was too sensible to resent this speech, which 
certainly held a truism, but she colored slightly as though she 
were not quite pleased. 

“ I dare say you are correct, but in my sister-in-law ^s case 
I think she had no right to feel injured. Ivan spoke to her 
very early in their engagement ; he told her that he still 
wished me to share his home, and asked her if she had any 
objection, and she made none— oh, none at all. Of course, I 
see now that she was too indifferent to give it really a thought. 
When she first came she was very affectionate in her manner 
to me, and said once or twice how nice it was to have a sister ; 
and she tried to find out Ivan^s tastes from me, but all this very 
soon changed.^^ 

“ I suppose you hear from her sometimes but this abrupt 
question seemed to take Miss Thorpe by surprise, and for the 
first time she hesitated. 

“Well — no — at least, I have not heard for a long time. 
Ivan likes me to write — but— but — her letters always make 
me angry ; she always seems to imply that I was the means 
of preventing her from coming to an understanding with her 
husband.^^ 

Launcelot looked a little grave at this. 

“ I wonder how it would be — and then he stopped and 
began again. “ Miss Thorpe, if I were you, I would bring 
them together again ; your brother must want his wife, a man 
when he is once married cannot relish a bachelor existence. 
I dare say she made him miserable, but I think he should give 
her another chance ; incompatibility of temper, well, that is 
a poor excuse to put asunder those whom God has joined to- 
gether. Of course, you agree with me, — every woman would 
do so. If Mrs. Thorpe were to come home, and you were to 
live close by, — I am afraid I am taking a liberty, and saying 
too much, — but it is your own fault — 

“ Oh, I do not mind,^^ she returned, quietly, but her mouth 
was very stern ; “ you know you may say anything you like 
to us ; are you not our friend, one of ourselves T' and here she 
looked at him wistfully. “ I wish I could convince you of one 


76 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


thing, that I am not so selfish as I appear ; if it were for Ivanna 
good, I would go to-niorrow. I would seek— I mean, I would 
write to — Joan and beg her to come back, but knowing them 
both as I do, I cannot do this ; no, I would rather repeat your 
words, and move heaven and earth to keep them apart. 

There was a momentary flash in the gray penetrating eyes 
of Launcelot Chudleigh as Miss Thorpe said this, — a wonaer- 
ful interior illumination that was gone in a second, — and then 
all he said was this, — 

** Indeed? Then you are not afraid of the responsibility of 
deciding on another human being’s happiness. I always 
think it requires the wisdom of omniscience to adjust other 
people’s circumstances,” and though Miss Thorpe felt the 
veiled sarcasm underlying his words, she answered with the 
utmost mildness. 

“ I think you would modify your views if you were to see 
Ivan and his wife together. She brings out his weak points, 
— but, hush ! there is his key turning in the lock, he must not 
know we have been talking of this. I think I will go up and 
see if Dossie is awake. Ivan is so quick, he always notices in 
a moment if I am agitated,” but as Launcelot watched her 
put a chair back straight that was somewhat awry, and move 
a stool that seemed in the way, he thought it required very 
shrewd eyes to see that Miss Thorpe was agitated. The next 
moment he heard her talking to her brother in the hall in her 
usual voice, asking him if he were tired, and begging him to 
ring for some fresh tea. 

“Oh, no,” he returned, quickly. “I have more regard for 
my digestion than that ; it is only you women who can afford 
to be so reckless. I will go and have a talk with Chudleigh 
instead.” 

“ You look done up,” was his first observation when he and 
Launcelot had adjourned to the study, and Launcelot at once 
admitted the fact, and after that he gave rather a graphic ac- 
count of the way he had spent his time since morning, and 
Mr. Thorpe listened with his usual air of quiet interest. 

But all the time Launcelot talked he felt aware that his 
manner was different, his easy enjoyment of his friend’s con- 
versation and ready sympathy was merged into something 
that was anxious and yet critical ; he seemed to be looking at 
him with other eyes, to be searching for some evidence that 
he required. This watchfulness wearied him, and yet through 
the whole ev^ing he never relaxed it, and more than once 
Miss Thorpe’s^Lnanner showed a shade of anxiety as Launce- 
lot answered with unusual absence of mind. She was afraid 
her brother would notice tliat he was unlike himself, but Mr. 
Thorpe only thought he was fagged with his heavy day’s 
work. 

Launcelot very nearly betrayed himself once in an un- 
guarded moment ; he had said good-night, but Mr. Thorpe 
Had put on his old felt hat and had sauntered through the 


RACHEL THORPE, 


77 


churchyard with him, tempted by the mild spring atmosphere 
and the beauty of the starlight heavens. In spite of his 
fatigue, Launcelot could not refrain from rhapsodizing a 
little as he leaned on the palings and watched the pale glim- 
mer of moonlight on the red-tiled roofs of the almshouses, 
while the aged inhabitants slept peacefully and dreamed the 
dreams of old age. 

“Don^t you often think over Carlyle^s words, Thorpe: 
* When I gazed into those stars, have they not looked down 
upon me as with pity, like eyes glistening with heavenly 
tears over the little lot of man ? I always think starlight har- 
monizes even with one^s blackest moods^ 

“ Oh, I am no poet,^’ was the somewhat scornful reply to 
this, but Launcelot did not seem to hear ; he was trying to 
recall a passage in some essay he had read that had much 
struck him, and, as his way was, he began half unconsciously 
to repeat it aloud : “ There is always a deep vein of sorrow 
and disappointment, of shadow and drawback, in every 
human life. One man wrote ‘Miserrimus^ on his tomb, and 
there are many who would not refuse that briefest, saddest, 
and most significant of epitaphs. Whenever I come to know 
people whose lot seems most enviable and brilliant, I know 
that it is only a matter of time, and I shall unexpectedly 
open some closet door and discover a skeleton. But happily, 
his voice dropped over the concluding sentence. 

‘*Ai*e you quoting something? — it hardly sounds like ex- 
tempore philosophy, asked Mr. Thorpe, impatiently. 

“Oh, it is something I’ve read: I have a habit of recol- 
lecting things at odd moments. Don’t take any notice : I 
am in a pessimist mood,— there must be something wrong 
with my digestion.” 

“You are tired,” returned his friend, putting his hand on 
his shoulder. “You have put yourself in that poor fellow’s 
place until your own sympathy has worn you out ; you will 
not be yourself until you have had a good sleep. Oh, I know 
you thoroughly ; you pretend not to care and all the time you 
are quite miserable. I wish I were like that ; I suppose 1 
have my feelings, and am sorry, too, after a fashion, out my 
sympathy has never spoiled my appetite yet.” 

“You mean I did not enjoy my dinner,” replied Launcelot, 
solemnly, as they walked towards the cab-stand. “No doubt 
that is the real cause of my pessimism. I still feel remorse 
for lost opportunities ; even the prospect of enjoying future 
dinners does not console me in the least. Of course I know 
you are laughing, Thorpe ; your cool temperament never 
fashes itself with these trifles, but a man’s dinner, and indeed 
his breakfast, are serious ingredients in his life’s well-being 
or ill-being. Even a star-gazing philosopher has his human 
needs,” finished Launcelot, sleepily, at which Mr. Thorpe 
only laughed again. 

“ Oh, I won’t argue with you to-night ; we are not on equal 


78 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


terms. I am quite fresh and shall work half the night, and 
you are used up, body and mind. You know the Greek pro- 
verb, ‘ Sleep is the medicine for every disease.^ Try it, Chud- 
leigh, and to-morrow you will be the same impractical optim- 
ist that has so often put me out of patience. There comes 
cabby, so good-night 

But Launcelot made one more speech that night. 

“ My friend,’^ he said to the cabman, as he drew up at the 
Witchens, “ when you are old, and the rheumatism has got 
Into your bones, how would you like to be whipped up-hill 
and refused time to take your breath? If you had shown 
a little more humanity to your poor beast I would have given 
you double fare ; and, indeed, if you promise to lay that whip 
aside you may have an extra sixpence,^^ and then he turnea 
on his heel and left the man looking dubiously after him. 

“ He^s a rum customer, he observed as he climbed up on his 
box again, and jerked the reins as a reminder that the old 
mare might as well be quick about it. 

“ I wonder what the brutes must think of us,’^ soliloquized 
Launcelot as he stood in the glass porch ; “ some of them 
must feel quite ashamed of human acquaintances. ‘Which 
of us two is the brute?’ as the ill-used donkey said to the 
costermonger. ‘They are all alike bruteses,’ as that poor 
Irishwoman remarked to me one day. Well, Fenwick,” as a 
gray-haired butler opened the door, “ any news of the travel- 
lers?” 

“No, Mr. Launcelot, but we are getting the rooms ready 
for fear of a telegram.” 

“All right ; it is best to be beforehand,” and then he took 
his chamber candlestick and went up to nis room. 


CHAPTER X. 

“oxford blue, if you please.” 

“ Life is a weariness only to the idle, or where the soul is empty ; and 
better than to exist thus vacantly is it for longevity as to birthdays to 
be denied.”— Grindon. 

“ And the feeble little ones must stand 
In the thickest of the fight.” 

Adelaide Anne Proctor. 

Mr. Thorpe was perfectly correct in his prognostication. 
Launcelot woke to fresh energy the next morning. His 
health was perfect: and a few hours’ sleep, after any great 
strain of mind or body, always restored him. He was too 
strong and active, too full of life, to feel the lassitude of 
weaker mortals ; ennui he had never experienced, inactivity 
was simply death to him. The torpid condition of lymphatic 
Rrd aimless natures drove him to the borders of irritaoility. 


^OXFORD BLUE, IF YOU PLEASE.^^ 


79 


To him change of work was perfect rest, and a day over-brim- 
ming with employment and human interests was a day well 
spent. 

He was going down to Hampshire that afternoon, to spend 
two or three days at a friend^s country-house ; but as he 
dressed himself he planned how he was to see Dossie before 
he left town. 

He interviewed Mrs. Fenwick while he ate his breakfast. 
She was an old servant, and had acted as nurse to all his step- 
brothers and sisters, and now she filled the position of general 
supervisor, or housekeeper. She had left the Witchens for a 
few years on her marriage with the butler, but as they had no 
children they had willingly returned to their duties,— Fen- 
wick especially, who thought that Mr. Launcelot and the 
young gentlemen would not get on without him. 

“ You see, the plate and the cellar has always been on Fen- 
wick^s mind,^^ observed his wife, feelingly. *‘He never 
rightly enjoyed himself worrying how Stewart would manage 
them. It is just of a piece with my fretting over the linen, 
and I see there is a hole burnt right through the best damask 
tablecloth all along of Laura^s carelessness. But there, things 
will get wrong when there is no one to look after them,” fin- 
ished the worthy woman with a sigh of content, as she looked 
through the well-stored presses. 

It was to Mrs. Fenwick that Launcelot gave the charge of 
his packing ; for though he could be self-helpful on occasion 
there was no one so waited upon. The household in general 
vied with each other in anticipating the young master^s 
wishes, and even Neale, the solemn-faced groom, brightened 
when the order was given to him to bring round the phaeton 
and bay mare, as the master would drive himself into town. 

As soon as Launcelot had finished his breakfast and glanced 
at the paper he went through the hot-houses, and had a long 
and important consultation with the gardener. ^‘You must 
have all this attepded to at once, Stokes,” he said, very seri- 
ously. ‘‘ The mistress and the young ladies will be back in a 
few days, and they will soon be thinking of their tennis par 
ties. Why, it is April now.” 

“Very true, Mr. Launcelot,” returned Stokes, in his usual 
grumbling tones. “ Miss Beatrix has been writing about the 
new fernery she wants made. I have set the lads to dig up 
the borders this very morning. They were wanted for the 
drain-pipes in the kitchen-garden, but Miss Beatrixes orders 
were to be carried out, — so her ma said, — and so, of course, 
toother job must wait.” 

“Oh, of course, Stokes, young ladies must be attended to 
first. Let us go and have a look at the fernery ; ‘ behind the 
rosiery^ was Miss Beatrixes orders, ‘just before you come to 
the terrace,^ ” and disregarding the old man^s growls that he 
could not leave his work, Launcelot led the way to the fern- 
ery. 


80 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


After this he went into his studio and wrote a letter or two, 
and then drawing on a pair of immaculate driving-gloves he 
nodded pleasantly to Neale, and got into his phaeton. As he 
drove rapidly across the common and down the hill towards 
Overton, his spirits seemed to rise. He had to check his mare 
at the bridge, for the little toll-house was still there, and the 
first pile of the new bridge had not yet been driven in. But 
Launcelot was conservative in his tastes, in spite of his love 
of change, and the old wooden bridge, with its queer old toll- 
house, was very dear to him. He always drove over it slowly, 
and looked down at the broad sunshiny river with its steam- 
ers and barges and tiny boats. The gray tower of Riversleigh 
church stood out distinct and clearly cut against the soft spring 
sky ; the trees on the banks made a dark background ; a brown 
sail in the distance gave a spot of picturesque color. A group 
of ragged urchins leaned over the parapet to see the steamer 
lowering its funnel as it passed under the bridge ; a four-in- 
hand dashed over it at the same moment to the shrill sound 
of the French horn, — sunshine, movement, happy faces, the 
gleam of water, all filled Launcelot^s eyes and mind with a 
sense of well-being and contentment. 

Just at the entrance of Priory Road he came upon Miss 
Thorpe, in her neat black bonnet and cloak, looking the very 

£ ersonification of brisk, capable middle age, and always to 
iauncelot^s eyes looking a thorough gentlewoman. He gave 
the reins to Neale and got down to speak to her. She seemed 
somewhat surprised by this early visit, as he had told them he 
was going down to Hampshire. 

“You must not be too anxious about Dossie,^^ she said, in 
quite a motherly voice. “She slept very well last night, 
and did not disturb me once ; but she seems very weak, and 
hardly able to hold up her head this morning. We must 
give her time to recover herself ; she has evidently been over- 
strained.” 

“Is she not up. Miss Thorpe?” asked Launcelot, vaguely 
anxious at this account, and wishing heartily that his step- 
mother were in England. 

“ Oh, yes ; she would get up and dress herself. I could not 
induce her to lie in bed ; she is on the couch in the drawing- 
room. Shall I come back with you, or would you rather see 
her alone?” 

“ 1 think we shall get on better alone, thank you, and it is a 
pity to hinder^ou. You look dreadfully business-like. Miss 
Thorne. I expect you are going to your office?” 

“ Yes, for a few hours, but Merton will look after Dossie. 
Well, my time is certainly precious, so I will say good-by,” 
and she shook hands cordially, and walked on. 

Launcelot knew instinctively why Dossie had insisted on 
dressing herself and going down-stairs. She was expecting 
him ; he was sure of it, when he opened the drawing-room 
door and saw her small eager face ; sne was sitting up among 


OXFORD BLUE, IF YOU PLEASE,^^ 


81 


the pillows with a red spot on either cheek and her eyes wide 
with expectation. 

But the sight of his familiar smile brought back the events 
of yesterday too vividly, for before he could reach her she had 
covered her face with her hands, and it went to his heart to 
hear her pitiful sobs, — Oh, Mr. Lance ! Mr. Lance 

“ Yes, my dear, what is it?” he said, sitting down beside her 
and stroking the fair tangled hair. “ You must not cry when 
you see me, Dossie, or I shall think you are not pleased to see 
me.” 

“ Ah, but I am. I have wanted you so, and now — ” but she 
could say no more, only her convulsive clasp of his hand, and 
the way she laid her cheek against it, spoke volumes to Launce- 
lot. He was the only link with her old life in her utter 
desolation. In the unfathered blank of her present existence, 
his face seemed the only familiar object to the lonely child,— 
the only one in this great, strange world who could talk to 
her of her father. 

Launcelot understood this, and he was very patient with 
her tears. As soon as she could listen to him, he told her all 
she wanted to know ; how her father had looked and what he 
had said, and the last message he had sent her, and how he 
hoped she would soon begin a letter to him. 

“And if I were you, Dossie,” he went on cheerfully, “I 
would set about it very soon ; not to-day, because your head 
aches, but to-morrow, or the next day. You need not write 
much to tire yourself, but just a little every day,— what you 
are doing, and what you think of your new friends. You 
have not seen Mr. Thorpe yet, but his sister, she is very nice 
and kind, and I am sure she was good to you yesterday.” 

“ Oh, yes, she is a very kind lady,” returned Dossie, sedately. 
“ She was good to Beppo too, though she says she does not 
like puppies, and never had one in her room before ; but, Mr. 
Lance, she says it is naughty to make myself ill with fretting, 
but — but, how am I to live without father ?” 

“My dear child,” returned Launcelot, gravely, “there are 
other children who are more unhappy than you, whose father 
will never come back to them again. There was one little girl 
I knew, whose father died, and she had no mother, and her 
case was sadder than yours,” and then he stopped, for the 
recollection was a painful one. The child had heen sickly, 
and she had pined and wasted in her uncongenial home 
among strangers, and had soon followed her father. No, he 
would not tell her about poor little Gretchen, and yet the 
child had died with her hand in his and a smile on her face. 
“ Lebewohl, mein Herr,” had been her last words to him, and 
then, “ Im Himmel ach der liebe Vater,” faintly articulated 
with her failing breath. 

No, he would not talk about little Gretchen. The child had 
a pulmonary complaint, and would never have grown into 
healthy womanhood. Dossie was of a different calibre alto- 
/ 


82 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


gether ; she was only overstrained, as Miss Thorpe lad said, 
so he evaded her question about the little girl, and suddenly 
asked her if she would make him a pincushion, ‘‘for I have 
only this, Dossie,^^ pulling out a faded one from his pocket; 
“ this was Sybil’s work, and she was very proud of it, but you see 
all the color is gone. I should like a dark blue one for the boat 
race, — Oxford color, you know. Miss Thorpe will tell you all 
about it, and it must be just the size to slip into my waistcoat 
pocket, and I should like black and white pins placed alter- 
nately ; and it must be Oxford blue, if you please.” 

Dossie’s miserable little face, sodden with much c ying, 
looked a shade less woe-begone as Laimcelot held fortl about 
the pincushion. She even agreed that Merton should b ' sum- 
moned, and the shade of the silk left to her selection. 

“ And while you are about it, you might make one for my 
brother Geoffrey, too ; he is a very nice fellow, Dossie, and I 
know he would be ever so much obliged to you.” And as 
Merton undertook to go to the haberdasher’s at once, Dossie 
promised that she would set about them that very afternoon. 
“And a turn in the garden would do Beppo good,” went on 
Launcelot, with a serious face ; “ he does not seem quite him- 
self,” which was the fact, as the little animal had been eating 
too much, and was suffering the consequences of excessive re- 
pletion ; “ a little fresh air would be extremely beneficial to 
him,” and Dossie was induced to promise that she would take 
the puppy for an airing. 

He left her soothed and mcified by his promise to come soon 
again and to take her and Beppo for a walk. “You will be a 
good child until you see me again,” he said, lifting the little 
hand to his lips, but Dossie, not content with this, threw her 
arms round his neck. “ I will be good. I will try to be good, 
Mr. Lance, but I do ache so.” “Poor little thing,” he re- 
turned, smiling at her with full sympathy, and, in spite of 
herself, Dossie felt comforted ; for even a childish burthen 
can be lifted by a word of kindness, and a cup of cold water 
given to one of these little ones may prove a fountain of re- 
freshment. A grain of dust is a mountain of care to the 
toiling ant, and a child’s heart-break is veritable heart-break, 
though it may be easily consoled ; perhaps Launcelot’s sun- 
shiny infiuence was never more powerful for good than when 
Dossie dried her eyes at his persuasion, and undertook her 
laborious task of pincushion-making. 

Miss Thorpe could hardly believe the evidence of her senses 
when she returned that afternoon and found Dossie sitting 
up among the sofa cushions with a small table before her 
strewn with card-board and snippets of dark-blue ribbon, 
while the result of an hour’s labor was manifest in a tiny 
pincushion. 

The child looked flushed and weary, but she held it up 
triumphantly for Miss Thorpe’s inspection. 

“ Look here, I have done this all myself. Mr. Lance asked 


OXFORD BLUE, IF YOU PLEASE.^* 83 

me to make it, he wanted a pincushion so badly, and it was 
to be a tiny weeny thing for his waistcoat pocket. 

“Why, you have done it beautifully. You are a clover 
little girl, Dossie,^^ returned Miss Thorpe with warm approval, 
and a smile of pleasure crossed Dossiers face ; she gazed at 
her handiwork proudly. 

“ It ought to be nice for him,^^ she replied, “ and I like doing 
it so. He asked me to make one for his brother Geoffrey, and 
I was thinking^^ — here her manner grew reflective — “ that per- 
haps Bernard would like one too, and there is Fred — only 
they call him Freckles. 

“ Yes, and I am sure my brother would be most gratified 
for one,” returned Miss Thorpe, with ready tact ; and though 
after a time Dossiers interest waxed languid, and she pushed 
away her work a little fretfully. Miss Thorpe wisely took no 
notice ; but when tea was brought in she talked to her about 
some poor children for whom she and Merton were hard at 
work, and she described their wretched condition so graphi- 
cally that Dossie soon fell into the trap, and at once offered 
to make a gayly-striped pinafore for the baby. 

Dossie did not see Mr. Thorpe for two or three days after 
her arrival. Without being actually ill she continued very 
weak and ailing, and though she occupied herself during a 
few hours in the day, she still moped and fretted miserably : 
indeed, more than once Miss Thorpe feared that the child 
would really be ill. She grew thinner, there were always 
black lines under her eyes, and she feared that she cried her- 
self every night to sleep, for often as she listened outside the 
door she would hear the plaintive cry: “Father, oh father, 
dear, I do want you so,” followed by a smothered sob. 

“ Poor little soul !” Miss Thorpe would say, but she never 
entered the room. She was very kind to Dossie, very wise 
and judicious in her treatment of the child, but it was not her 
nature to spoil any one. Dossie had clung to her at the first 
moment, attracted by her kind eyes and the mildness of her 
voice, but she never gave way in her presence again. Miss 
Thorpe had a bracing philosophy of her own, though she 
rarely preached it. She thought too much petting was bad 
for children, and though she liked to have them about her, 
and always made them happy, they did not attach themselves 
to her as they did to her brother ; unconsciously they were 
always on their best behavior in her presence. All her life 
she had worked for the neglected children of the metropolis, 
and it was a work for which she would have laid down her 
life ; but no passionate maternal love throbbed in her heart 
for any individual child. Even the little ones whom she had 
saved from cruel parents, whom she had clothed and fed often 
at her own expense, were not nearer to her inner conscious- 
ness than hosts of others whom she hoped to rescue. For she 
was a philanthropist in its broadest and widest sense, and any 
special affection such as Launcelot lavished on his prot6g6e 


84 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


would have seemed to her to narrow and confine her sympa- 
thies. 

“We must all go through it/^ she would sigh as she went 
down-stairs, with Dossiers tremulous little voice ringing pain- 
fully in her ears. “ Man, and woman too, is born to trouble, 
but she is young to begin. And it never occurred to her that 
she migl.t take the tired little head on her shoulder and com- 
fort her. “Children only give way all the more if they are 
noticed, she would say ; and to this rule she allowed no ex- 
ception. 

Dossie had not yet seen Mr. Thorpe, but one day when 
Ijauncelot had written to say that he should be detained a 
little longer in Hampshire Miss Thorpe read the letter to 
Dossie, and then she asked her pleasantly if she would take it 
into her brother's study, and carry him a cup of tea at tne 
same time. 

Dossie was not shy with strangers, so she made no objection 
to this, and a few minutes afterwards Mr. Thorpe heard a 
small voice at his elbow, and turning round in some surprise 
saw Dossiers pale face and large wistful eyes raised to his. 

For one moment his fiistidious taste suffered a brief shock 
at the sight of Launcelot’s new prot^g^e. Miss Thorpe had 
been right when she said her brother liked pretty children, for 
he was a man most keenly sensitive to outward beauty, and 
Dossie was by no means a pretty child. 

It needed some discernment to detect future possibilities in 
the quaint old-fashioned face and figure which the shabby 
brown frock certainly did not set off to advantage. Launce- 
lot, who was an artist, had once looked critically at the gar- 
ment in question. “ Madella will alter all that,^^ he said to him- 
self ; “ dress will do a great deal for Dossie, her pale tints want 
warmth and color. But Mr. Thorpe, who was neither artist 
nor poet, may be forgiven if bethought Dossie a very ordinary 
specimen of childish humanity. But he hid these feelings 
and addressed her very kindly. 

“ So you are little Miss Weston, are you?’^ he said, quietly. 

“Yes, I am Dossie,^^ and pushing the teacup towards him, 
“ I have brought you your tea and Mr. Lancets letter. 

“Thank you, my dear. I will see what our friend has to 
say for himself. Will you stop and talk to me a little, or 
would you rather go back to Rachel?'^ 

“ Oh, I will^stop here, please,’^ returned Dossie without hesi- 
tation, feeling she had been on her good behavior long enough, 
and, like all children, ready for anything in the shape of 
novelty ; “ that is, if I shall not be in your way.’^ 

“ Oh, no. I like little girls to keep me company,” replied Mr. 
Thorpe, pleased by this ready courtesy ; and, indeed, there 
was a gentleness and innate good breeding in Dossie that al- 
ways won people after a time. “ So Mr. Chudleigh cannot 
get away just yet. Well, T hope you can make yourself happy 
with us a little longer.” 


OXFORD BLUE, IF YOU PLEASE,^' 


85 


“ Oh, yes,^^ returned Dossie, with grave politeness. “ I like 
being here. Miss Thorpe is teaching me to make clothes for 

E oor children, but of course I shall like to live with Mr. Lance 
est. You like Mr. Lance too, do you not?^^ fixing her eyes 
on Mr. Thorpe^s face. 

Now, why it came into his mind to tell her he never could 
quite make out, but the next moment his arm was round 
Dossie, holding her in quite a fatherly fashion, and he was 
telling her about that terrible scene in the Engadine, to which 
Dossie listened with wide eyes and rapt attention. 

“Oh,^^ she sighed, drawing a deep breath when he had 
finished this fascinating recital, “ how you must love Mr. 
Lance V' 

Mr. Thorpe made no response to this ; he was asking him- 
self why he had told this story, but the answer did not seem 
forthcoming. He had never spoken of it to any one, and yet 
this little stranger girl with her large solemn blue eyes had 
drawn it from him. 

“ I think, went on Dossie, clasping her hands together in 
her old-fashioned way, “ that Mr. Lance is as brave as those 
old knights father talks about ; one of them had Mr. Lancets 
name.^^ 

“Ah, Sir Launcelot, but he was not always brave, Dossie; 
he could do a mean thing, though he repented it afterwards, 
and,^^ he muttered half to himself, “ ^ so groaned Sir Launce- 
lot in remorseful pain, not knowing he should die a holy 
man.^ I think Sir Galahad was a better sort of fellow, by all 
accounts. 

“Father was always sorry for Sir Launcelot,’’ returned 
Dossie, seriously ; “ he loved the Queen and made poor King 
Arthur unhappy. Mr. Lance would never make any one un- 
happy ; he would rather die first. Oh, I know all about him. 
He is so good, and I am sure his life ought to be written too,” 
went on Dossie, who certainly had a passion for biographies, 
and always desired to immortalize her dearest friends. 

“There speaks a kind little friend,” was Mr. Thorpe’s reply 
to this. “Yes, this second Launcelot is a grand fellow, but 
we will not tell him so, Dossie, or he will get conceited, and 
conceited people are a bore.” 

But Dossie would not allow this. She maintained with a 
good deal of heat that Mr. Lance could never be conceited, 
and they had quite an argument on the subject. 

“That child is very original,” was Mr. Thorpe’s comment 
that evening to his sister when Dossie had gone to bed. 
“ Chudleigh is not so wrong, after all. She is an interesting 
little creature.” 

“Not to me,” replied Miss Thorpe, placidly. “ I like her, 
but she does not interest me as Jessie and Maud Sothern 
did.” 

“Oh, they are a different sort,” returned her brother, but 
he said no more ; only Miss Thorpe noticed that the next day 

8 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


Dossie volunteered to take in the cup of tea to Ivan, and that 
she remained a long time in the study. 

And the next afternoon she was watching at the window 
and ran to the door to let him in, and Mr. Thorpe, seeing that 
the child showed a decided predilection for his society, good- 
naturedly kept her with him, and gave her employment in 
tidying sundry drawers, and tearing up paper. 

Miss Thorpe smiled benevolently when she found them 
busily employed. Children are always happy with Ivan ; 
he has the best heart in the world. If he had only a little girl 
of his own she thought, as with a sigh she went back to her 
sewing-machine 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE GREEN DOOR IN THE WALL. 

“ Beauty consists of a certain composition of color and figure, causing 
del^ht in the beholder.”— Lockb, 

“ The old definition of beauty in the Roman school was ‘ multitude in 
unity,’ and there is no doubt th^t such is the principle of beauty.”— 
Coleridge. 

Dossie had been little more than a week at Priory Road 
when one afternoon as she was sitting at work with Miss 
Thorpe there was a knock at the door, and the next moment 
Launcelot entered the room. 

A quick flush rose to Dossiers face, but her gladness seemed 
of the silent sort. She hardly looked up as Launcelot bent 
over her with a kind inquiry ; but he had seen the sudden 
flush of joy in her eyes and knew that her childlike frame 
was trembling with suppressed feeling, so he prudently left 
her alone for a few minutes, and then he said, in a quiet 
matter-of-fact tone, “ It is a lovely afternoon ; donT you think 
a run on the common would do Dossie and Beppo good. Miss 
Thorpe ? I have sent on my luggage to the Witchens, and I 
have nothing on earth to do with myself. 

“I think it is a very good idea,’^ returned Miss Thorpe, 
briskly. She was turning the heel of a stocking as she spoke. 

‘Run and put on your hat, my dear,^^ and DosSie obeyed, 
nothing loath.- Launcelot waited until she had closed the 
door, and then he said, in a dissatisfled voice, — 

“Dossie does not do you credit; she looks dwindled some- 
how. I hardly know how to express it.^^ 

“ She has fretted so,^^ returned Miss Thorpe, quietly ; 
“most children forget their troubles in a week, but Dossie 
broods too much over hers. She has a great deal of char- 
acter for her age. Ivan takes a great interest in her, and 
sometimes succeeds in rousing her, but I generally found it 
answered better to leave her alone. Launcelot made no 


THE GREEN DOOR IN THE WALL, 


87 


reply ; he thought Dossie looked as though she had been too 
much alone, but he was quite aware of Miss Thorpe^s theories 
on this subject ; she was a rigid disciplinarian. 

“ I dare say her method would answer with most children,^^ 
he said to himself, “ but I fancy she does not quite hit it off 
with Dossie but he was too lazy for an argument, so he 
watched the firm white hands and flashing knitting-needles 
for a few minutes, and then he said, — 

‘‘I shall not need to trouble you much longer with Dossie. 
I am ever so much obliged to you for all you have done for her ; 
my people will be back to-morrow. 

“Ah, indeed, glancing at him with interest; “then you 
are going to sleep at the Witchens to-night 

“Yes, I came up on purpose to be ready to welcome them. 
I shall tell Madella that I shall never consent to this whole- 
sale fiitting again. I have been quite lost without them all. 
I declare it will be a treat to box Freckles^s ears again ; the 
young monkey arrives to-morrow from Uppingham. 

“I always told Ivan that you were cut out for a married 
man,^^ returned Miss Thorpe, smiling ; “in spite of your 
roaming propensities, your tastes are decidedly domestic, 
and though Lauiicelot smiled at this shrewd remark, he 
looked a little queer over it too. 

Dossiers entrance spared him any necessity for reply, and he 
rose at once, saying they must not waste any more time. Miss 
Thorpe followed them to the door to ask him to take a hansom 
up the hill, as Dossie was not strong enough for so long a walk, 
and to this he agreed at once. 

“ Well,’^ he said, glancing at her serious little face in its old- 
fashioned gray hood, — and he was amused to see how people 
looked at them, and no wonder, for the young man's graceful 
figure in his light well-cut overcoat made a strange foil to the 
pale, tired-looking child in her outgrown brown frock and 
shabby cloak, — “well, Dossie, and so you are pleased to see 
me this time ; and now is that letter written ?" 

“Oh, yes," returned Dossie, breathlessly, “and it is such 
a long one. I have told father everything, — oh, everything, 
— only now and then I could not help making a blot or 
smudge — when I could not help crying, you know, and so I 
am afraid if father can read it." 

“Ah, we must alter that," replied Launcelot, in his quick, 
alert manner ; not for worlds would he have Jack see that 
poor blotted little effusion all ink-stains and tears ; what 
father could have borne such a sight ! “I will tell you what 
you must do, Dossie ; you must have a fresh sheet of paper 
and a new pen, and copy out every word, and there must 
be no blots and no stains, and then I will put it in an en- 
velope and post it, and when Jack gets it he will say, ‘ What 
pains that dear child must have taken ! I can read every 
word as clearly as print,' " and Dossie was charmed with this 
advice. 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS 


He asked her presently when the hansom had put them 
down and they were walking hand in hand over the wide 
breezy common, with Beppo rollicking after them in puppy 
fashion, how she liked being at Priory Hoad, and if she were 
rather fond of her new friends. 

‘‘Oh, I like it pretty well,^^ returned Dossie, sedately. “I 
think Miss Thorpe is good to everybody. She does speak so 
kindly to all the poor old women we meet, and when she 
scolds she scolds beautifully, without looking really very 
angry, you know. One man was very rude to her, — oh, he 
frightened me so, out Miss Thorpe was not a bit frightened ; 
she told him he ought to be ashamed of himself to speak so 
to a lady, and he actually minded her and went away. I 
think every one minds Miss Thorpe, finished Dossie, in a 
meditative manner, “ but I like Mr. Thorpe best.” Launce- 
lot turned round at this; he looked rather pleased. “You 
are a sensible child,” he said ; “ there is not a better fellow 
living than Thorpe, but I hardly expected you to find that 
out.” 

“ Oh, I liked him ever since he talked about you,” went on 
Dossie. “He is very quiet. Sometimes he hardly speaks, 
and then all at once he wakes up, and says something nice. 
He is not as nice as you, Mr. Lance, of course not, but he is 
trustable,” airing her favorite word again. 

Launcelot chuckled. “She is wonderfully knowing,” he 
said to himself. “Thorpe is worth his weight in gold, and 
she has found it out,” and then he roused himself and changed 
the subject. 

“Don’t you like this common, Dossie? I wish you and 
Beppo would have a race together down that path ;” but the 
child shook her head. 

“I don’t feel like running, Mr. Lance. I like to keep with 
you here. Oh, yes ; I think it is a beautiful place, — so wide, 
all bushes and sky, and the birds sing so.” 

“You should hear them in the early morning. Now, do you 
see that long wall with all those glass houses ? Look how far 
it goes.” 

“ Oh, yes. What a big place ! I wonder who lives there,— 
some one very rich ?” 

“Well, I will tell you. Launcelot Chudleigh, Esq., R.A., 
lives there. Dear me, what great eyes, Dossie ! Yes, that is 
the Witchens, and this is Brentwood Common. Look how 
the common stretches to the garden wall, and shuts us in all 
round, — nothing but gorge and blackberry-bushes. And there 
is the little town of Brentwood ; and all along there in the 
distance there are fine big houses standing back from the road, 
and a pond where the boys slide, and — ” but here Dossie in- 
terrupted him. 

“ You live here, Mr. Lance? Oh, I had no idea you were so 
grand. What a lovely big place ; and, oh dear, is that the 
garden ? How I should like to see it I” 


THE GREEN DOOR IN THE WALL. 


89 


“And so you shall, was the answer; and to Dossiers im- 
mense surprise Launcelot produced a key from his pocket 
and, inserting it into the lock of a green door in the wall 
that Dossie had hardly noticed, disclosed a flight of worn 
stone steps. “ Open sesame ; your ladyship may have your 
wish. Come along, Dossie ; there is no reason why I should 
not show you the garden and the hot-houses. You may 
gather some flowers if you like. Stokes won^t take any 
notice, he muttered, “ and we need not go near the house 
and the child followed him delightedly up the steps, which 
landed them on a broad gravel terrace with seats at either 
end. The wall was low, and even Dossie could see the stretch 
of common, dotted over with seats, with the wide sky-line, 
the whole prospect bathed in the soft clear light of a spring 
afternoon. Launcelot leaned his arms on the wall, and 
gazed abstractedly into the distance. “How I love spring,^^ 
he said, more to himself than to Dossie. “It is the time for 
youth, for hope, for love, — so Tennyson says, at least. Isn^t 
it in ‘Locksley HalP that he says, — 

in the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove ; 

In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.’ 

That is why one hears of so many matches, I suppose, made 
up in the season. ‘ We are desired to announce that a mar- 
riage will shortly come off between the Hon. Algernon 
Featherhead and Lady Fatima Grildesleigh.^ One could an- 
notate * Locksley HalF thus : 

* In the spring manoeuvring mothers whisper in a stern aside, 

“ He is but the second brother ; you must never be his bride !” ’ 

Bad for GeoflTrey, that ; but let us continue. I feel inspired : 

* In the spring the ball-room darlings mind their ma and whisper low, 
Baying, “ Dost thou love me, Baron ?”— sighing, “I have loved thee so.” 
Love took up that stately Baron-—’ 

Oh, by Jove — no — Impossible 

And the reason of this sudden exclamation on Launcelot^s 
part, and why he broke off his absurd doggerel rhyme and 
looked exceedingly disconcerted and foolish, was owing to 
the fact that a tall, handsome young lady had just stepped out 
from the shrubbery that closed in the terrace and was stand- 
ing regarding him with intense astonishment. 

“ I thought I heard voices, she said, as though still incred- 
ulous of her eyes, “ but I could not be sure. Have you scaled 
the wall, Mr. Chudleigh? And, oh dear, there is a little girl 
too.^^ 

“Miss Rossiter,^^ returned Launcelot, in a most bewildered 
voice, “ what on earth does this mean ? I will take my oath 
that the telegram said to-morrow. 

“ Yes,” but here she laughed merrily, “that was Mr. Geof- 

8 * 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


ft) 

frey^s mistake. He put the wrong date, and so, of course, no 
one expected us. Poor Mrs. Chudleigh was ready to cry about 
it when Mrs. Fenwick told her that you had not arrived. 
She was quite pale with the disappointment.^^ 

“ And you are all here V' 

“ Oh, yes ; all but Fred. Mr. Bernard met us at the station. 
They are all so cross with Mr. Geoffrey for making that mis- 
take : but now you must come and see them. They are all in 
the morning-room. Fenwick has just brought in tea. Oh, 
bow delighted they will be 

“Wait a moment, please,^^ returned Launcelot, in rather a 
rueful voice ; and then he looked at Dossie and laughed, as he 
thought of their ridiculous position. And Miss Rossiter 
laughed too, in a pleasant sort of way, as though she were 
somehow amused. 

She was an exceedingly handsome young woman. Indeed, 
most people called her beautiful, in spite of the marked irreg- 
ularities that detracted from any perfection of feature ; but 
then very few cared to criticise so charming a face. She had 
very dark Irish gray eyes, — eyes that could be very subtle and 
mischievous and tender, — and a wonderfully transparent com- 
plexion with quick varying color, and her head, that was very 
finely shaped, was covered with thick coils of reddish brown 
hair. 

She was very tall, and her figure was somewhat full ; but 
she moved very quickly and gracefully, so that it was a pleas- 
ure to watch her. Indeed, she seemed full of life and energy 
and buoyant health. Her voice was clear and sweet, and 
there was something in her laugh that reminded one of a 
child, — a certain abandon and enjoyment that one rarely sees 
in a grown-up person. 

It was hardly a matter for surprise then that Launcelot, in 
spite of his perplexity, should look at her with some interest 
and a great deal of attention. His artistic taste commended 
the dark gray dress and the bunch of yellow daffodils she held 
in her hands. 

“ Miss Rossiter, you have come upon me like a whirlwind ; 
I don't think I was ever so surprised in my life. I have not 
even shaken hands, and yet we have not met for five months. 
I need not ask how you are, you look first-rate, and — " but 
she interrupted him with just a trace of impatience in her 
manner. 

“Oh, we know Mr. Chudleigh never pays compliments. 
Yes, I am well, always well ; I am absurdly strong, you know. 
Please tell me who this little girl is? for do you know it is 
rather cold here on the terrace, and I have not even my hat." 

“Of course you will take cold, and after Mentone too: is 
that the way you play with your health. Miss Rossiter ? Now 
please listen to me ; I will not keep you a moment, you must 
go back to the house and not tell any one you have seen me ; 
and when I have taken Dossie home, I will come back." 


THE GREEN DOOR IN THE WALL, 


91 


“Dossie!^^ returned Miss Rossiter, utterly bewildered by 
Launcelot’s mysterious manner. “ Is she a little friend 6t 
yours, or a prot^g^e?^^ she added, after a quick glance at tb^ 
child^s shabby dress. “ Poor little thing, she looks very tired 
why do you not bring her in, and give her some tea ?” 

“ No, I must speak to Madella first. I cannot introduce he. 
in this abrupt fashion. Miss Rossiter, it is too long a tale U 
tell now, and Dossie is tired. I want no one to see the child 
and so we will make our escape this way ; please say nothing 
about us — but here Launcelot broke off and said, “ By Jove,^^ 
again under his breath. “ Miss Rossiter, cannot your womau^s 
Wit help us ? There is that confounded fellow Geoffrey actu- 
ally smoking his cigar outside, on the common. We are in a 
regular trap. What on earth can I do with Dossie 

“ I will take her up to the school-room ; no one will notice us, 
and you can just walk into the morning-room. Yes, that will 
be best ; I will give her some tea, and no one will see her or 
ask questions ; and then when it is dark I will bring her into 
the garden : it will be as good as a game of hide-and-seek, will 
it not, Dossie and Miss Rossiter laughed in such an infec- 
tious way that Launcelot joined her. 

^‘Oh, it is too ridiculous altogether; never mind, Dossie, 
we must do as this lady bids us. Go in with her and have 
some tea, and I will fetch you by and by and, though 
Dossie could not comprehend the situation in the least, she 
was not at all reluctant to go with Miss Rossiter, whose face 
and voice had taken her childish fancy ; so she squeezed the 
puppy in her arms, and allowed herself to be led away into 
the shrubberies. 

A narrow path led them into the rosery ; and out of this 
they turned into a wide gravel walk, which in summer must 
be very pleasant and shady ; but now no leafy screen inter- 
posed between them and the long white house, only the great 
trees stretched out their bare branches in the spring sunshine. 
In front of them lay what Dossie afterwards described as a 
beautiful park, but which in reality was a very extensive 
lawn, adorned with grand old cedars, and weeping elms, and 
groups of ornamental shrubs, between which they glided ; Miss 
Rossiter holding the child^s hand in a firm, cool grasp. 

“We must go round by the front,” she whispered, ‘‘ no one 
will see us;” and opening a little iron gate, they passed 
through a wide courtyard, and then through a glass porch 
fitted up with plants in bloom like a green-house, and then 
into a large square hall, that looked like a room, only some 
packing-cases lay on the tessellated pavement, and wraps and 
rugs littered the oak settles and tables. 

“Don^t breathe, Dossie,” whispered Miss Rossiter in her 
ear, and then they went up a dark handsome staircase, and 
down a long passage, until Miss Rossiter opened a door, and 
said, “ Here we are ; this is the school-room and we are safe. 
Now sit down, my dear, and take off your bonnet, and I will 


92 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


tell Jane to get us some tea,” and so saying, she pushed Dossle 
gently into an easy-chair, and left the room. 

Dossie looked round with admiring eyes. How very, very 
rich Mr. Lance must be to have such a beautiful house, she 
thought. School-rooms were always ugly, but this looked like 
a drawing-room. There were so many pretty things about, 
pictures and china and handsome bookcases ; there was a 
couch, too, and delightfully easy chairs ; and flowers on the 
table ; a great bowl of scarlet anemones, and a china basket 
full of daffodils. There was a photograph of a child in a 
velvet frame standing on the writing-table, a pretty little 
dark-eyed girl, with loosely-flowing hair, who Dossie after- 
wards heard was Sybil. 

Dossie was quite contented to sit still and look about her ; 
she was still far from strong, and her legs ached with fatigue, 
and the appearance of a neat housemaid with the tea-tray was 
a very welcome sight. Miss Rossiter followed her. 

“ This little girl, a friend of mine, is very tired and hungry, 
Jane,” she said ; “ I have brought her in for a rest,” and Jane 
looked pleasantly at Dossie as she put the buttered cake 
within her reach. 

“Now, my dear,” observed Miss Rossiter as soon as they 
were left alone, and looking at Dossie in an amused way, 
“perhaps you will kindly tell me your name : Dossie, that is 
how Mr. Chudleigh addressed you, but Dossie is hardly your 
real name?” . 

“ Oh, no : my name is Dorothea Penelope Weston,” replied 
Dossie, with dignity, “ only father says that when I was a 
little thing I always called myself Dossie, so he and mother 
got into the way, too ; mother^s name was Penelope ; she was 
very pretty.” 

“Indeed?” and here Miss Rossiter tried not to laugh. 
Weston ! she had never heard the name ; it must be one of 
Mr. Chudleigh’s numerous prot6g6es ; most likely she was poor, 
—she was very shabbily dressed. He probably intendea his 
step-mother to befriend her. 

“Have you known Mr. Chudleigh long, my dear?” 

“ Oh, no ; I never saw him at all until three weeks ago. I 
never knew there was such a person as Mr. Lance at all, but 
father knew him. They had lived together when they were 
boys, and father is so fond of him.” 

“Do you live in Overton, Dossie?” 

“ Oh, no, we.never lived anywhere ; that is, we never stayed 
long in any place. Father is an artist and paints beautiful 

E ictures, but-— but” — a shadow crossing her face — “ Mr. Lance 
as sent him away to the other end of the world, and now — ” 
But here Dossie broke into a sob and could say no more. 

“ Poor little dear,” — kissing her, — “ never mind, we will not 
talk about it any more. Look, this is SybiPs portrait ; it was 
taken two years ago. She wears her hair in a plait now. Is 
she not a pretty little girl, rather like a gipsy?” But as she 


MADELLA. 


93 


chattered on, showing Dossie one thing after another, she told 
herself that she had better put no more questions to the child. 
There was evidently some mystery about the child, and it was 
not her affair to find it out. It was rather hard to repress her 
curiosity when Dossie, in the course of her conversation, asked 
coolly, where she would sleep when she came to live at the 
Witchens 

‘‘Live here! what do you mean?^^ asked the governess, 
thrown off her guard by this artless speech. 

“Mr. Lance is going to take care of me until father comes 
back,^^ returned Dossie, quietly. “I am to learn things with 
Sybil. Mr. Lance told father that you would be very kind to 
me. I am glad I like you,^^ went on Dossie, fixing her eyes 
seriously on Miss Rossi ter^s face ; “ it would be so dreadful to 
live here and not like people, but in a tone of conviction, “I 
can^t help liking you because you are so nice and pretty.^^ 
And Miss Rossiter was so charmed with this outspoken com- 
pliment that she kissed Dossie again, and they were now 
shattering together like old friends. 


CHAPTER XII. 

MADELLA. 

“ My noble gossips, ye have been too prodigal.”— Shakespeare. 

“The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good; the good- 
ness, that is cheap in beauty, makes beauty brief in goodness ; but grace 
being the soul of your complexion, should keep the body of it ever fair.” 
—Shakespeare. 

Meanwhile Launcelot had crossed the lawn boldly, and 
turning round the corner of the house walked up to an old- 
fashioned bay window, and raising the sash coolly walked in. 

“ Launcelot, why Lance, dear old Lance I Cleverly done, 
old fellow ! My darling boy, how you startled me ! Oh, 
Lancy, you duck Such were the greetings that met hie 
ear ; but without a word in reply Launcelot walked straight 
to a lady who had just set down her tea-cup and was rising 
from her chair, and put his arms round her still without 9 
word, but the gladness in his eyes was sufficient speech. 

“ My own boy, how I have wanted you said this lady 
with more than one motherly kiss, and she put back his hair 
with a hand that was sparkling with rings, and looked in his 
face as mothers only can look. And no one who saw them 
would have guessed "that this was a meeting between a step- 
mother and her step-son. 

“ Madella,^^ he said, quietly, and in a tone of honest convic- 
tion, “I think you have grown more lovely than ever,^^ and 
Mrs. Chudleigh blushed like a girl. 


94 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


** Your sisters and Bernard are waiting to speak to you,’' 
she said, pushing him gently away. “You must tell Bee she 
is looking charming too, or she will be jealous of the old 
mother.” 

And then Laujicelot leisurely made his rounds ; but when 
he had finished he came back to the tea-table, and asked his 
step-mother to give him a cup of tea. “For no one makes tea 
like you,” he continued, pathetically, “and I shall not feel 
that I have you really at home again until you pour me out a 
cup of tea with your own hands.” 

“Always a fiatterer, Lance,” she returned, smiling ; but her 
smile was very sweet. 

The world had long endorsed Launcelot’s opinion that Mrs. 
Chudleigh was a lovely woman, and that not even her hand- 
some young daughter Beatrix could ever hope to emulate her 
mother’s beauty. When young, more than one artist had 
asked to paint her, and under one picture had been written, 
but it was the work of a rejected suitor, “A daughter of the 
gods, divinely tall, and most divinely fair,” but those were 
the days when Della Weston had more lovers than dresses, 
and married to get rid of them all, as she once told Launcelot. 

She was a dark-haired, sweet-looking girl then, and now 
her hair was silvery white ; but she was sweet-looking still. 
Her face was still wonderfully young for her age, and a delicate 
bloom still lingered on it ; and in spite of her forty-eight years, 
her color varied like a girl’s. It was this soft brilliancy of 
complexion, set oflTby the silvery hair, that made her so strik- 
ing in appearance. Those who knew and loved her always said 
Mrs. Chudleigh was a girl in heart still ; she was as innocent 
now, when she was surrounded by her grown-up children, as 
though she were in her teens. Length of years and many 
troubles had not taught her knowledge of the world. She 
believed vaguely and sorrowfully in evil and sin. Of course 
there were wicked people, people who did wrong, the crimi- 
nal classes and others, butAbut — she never carecl to enter on 
the subject ; with so much goodness in the world, it was fool- 
ish and morbid to dwell on the darker shades of life. 

Her husband had adored this innocence ; he had never ex- 
pected to meet anything so fresh and uncorrupted out of 
Lden, as he said, and he had been her lover until the day of 
his death. 

This innate purity had been her safeguard through her 
widowhood. iNo one ventured to repeat a scandalous story 
in her hearing. Any tale of sin had been always hushed in 
her presence. “Mrs. Chudleigh never likes to hear these 
things ; it makes her ill, and she only frets about it after- 
wards,” people often said, and more than one strong-minded 
woman who thought it her duty to renovate society and was 
prepared to wade through the mire that she might benefit her 
fellow-creatures, had been heard to express her opinion that 
an old childhood was hardly a becoming age, and that there 


MADELLA. 


95 


W5 i something narrow and self-indulgent in a nature like 
if fl. Chudleigh^s ; “a woman with grown-up sons and 
d ughters/^ added one irascible spinster, who had been much 
I iraged by Mrs. Chudleigh^s unconscious dignity. 

don^t call it proper, my dear, for unmarried women to 
;o poking about public-houses and those low places, she 
•emarked, placidly. “Clergymen have to do that sort of 
:hing, but then they are men, and men know everything, as 
dear Uilbert used to say, but women are best at home, and, 1 
must say, Miss Benson has shocked me dreadfully. I am 
«orry if I seemed rude, but I did not like her style of conver- 
lation at all, and as to reading that tract, of course I burnt it, 
for fear Launcelot or the boys should see it.^^ 

“Madella,^’ observed her step-son once, when he noticed 
how calmly she enforced silence when some undesirable sub- 
ject came on the iapiSy “ I am afraid you are not a woman of 
enlightened intelligence and enlarged views. You are always 
obstructing free argument, — hindering conversation, in fact.^^ 

“ I can’t help it, Lance. I think it was wrong of Dr. Elliott 
to mention such a fact before Pauline.” 

“ Pauline is far wiser than her mother,” returned Launcelot, 
in a teasing voice. “ She scorns to be behind her age. Now, 
don’t shake your head. I know you have no interest in your 
neighbor’s rubbish-heaps ; you object to be told why people 
don’t care to call on him ; but all the same. Dr. Elliott will 
think you a narrow-minded woman.” 

“It does not in the least matter to me what Dr. Elliott 
thinks,” returned Mrs. Chudleigh, a little petulantly. 

“Madella,” was the mournful answer, “how could your 
conscience allow you to tell such a fib, and to me of all 
persons ? Have you not been adored by mankind ever since 
your childhood, and would you not be miserable if people 
ceased to adore you? Why, the good opinion of the gar- 
dener’s boy is necessary to your perfect content : you would 
worry yourself if even Jemmy Stokes found fault with you, 
and yet the opinion of the Vice-Chancellor of Magdalene is 
nothing to you.” 

“Launcelot, how can you be so tiresome? You ought to 
have told Dr. Elliott to defer the discussion until you were 
in the studio.” 

“ Nonsense ! — and you call yourself the mother of a family. 
To think of a woman of your age looking at the world like a 
nun through her grating. Do you krfbw, except for my 
father and myself, I expect you would have got yourself and 
the girls into many a scrape. It does not do to go through 
the world like a horse with blinkers, who only sees straight 
before him. It does not pay, Madella ; you will find this out 
for yourself one day.” 

“ Perhaps you may be right, dear,” she answered, gently. 
“ I have often been afraid of doing rash, impulsive things,” 
and here she looked a little uncomfortable, for she remem- 


98 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


bered that her step-son had reproved her rather sharply for 
her selection of Miss Rossi ter for a governess, though he had 
said less about it lately. “ I never feel quite safe unless you 
are with me, but Lance,” with a simplicity that touched him, 
“ I always pray that I may be guided right ; so I cannot go 
far wrong.” 

“ No,” he said, looking at her kindly ; “ no one but a villain 
would take advantage of you, and I am no pessimist to be- 
lieve that the world abounds in ready-made villains ; but don^t 
you sometimes wish that you could fashion a little world 
of your own, where there would be no poverty, and no misery, 
and no crime, no ill-used animals, no degraded children?” 

“ Why, that would be heaven, Lance,” she returned, with a 
sigh. “My dear, I am not so unreasonable as that : as long 
as the world lasts there must be sin and pain.” 

“Yes,” retorted Launcelot, somewhat dryly, “and so long 
as she lives will Madella dwell in her own house, and pull 
down her blinds, and stop her ears with soft cotton-wool, that 
she may not hear the groans of human victims, or see how 
cruelty still stalks abroad. ‘ Oh, my soul, come thou not near 
their habitations !’ ” and when he had said this, he turned on 
his heel and went out. 

As Launcelot received his cup of tea, he threw himself down 
in an easy-chair, and looked round his family circle with 
intense pride and delight. 

It was certainly a charming scene. Outside the spring sun- 
shine was lying on the soft velvety turf ; a bright fire burned 
on the hearth. Sybil, who was chilly, was lying on the black 
bearskin rug, in company with a large tawny St. JBernard 
dog, Launcelot^s special property. Sybil was a pretty, dark- 
eyed child of twelve, with a bright, piquante face. Beatrix, 
or Bee as she was generally called, was in a low chair, drawn 
close to the fire. She was a tall, shght girl, as her mother 
had been at her age, and was decidedly pretty. Her face was 
a fine oval, she had regular features, a complexion that was 
very soft and brilliant, and hair that looked the color of a 
chestnut ripened by the sun. 

Pauline, who w'as two years younger than her sister, had a 
bright sensible face, without any special claim to good looks ; 
her hair was reddish in tint, and her complexion somewhat 
pale, though she was perfectly strong and healthy. She had 
soft brown eyes that could be very expressive, and people who 
knew both'^rls often preferred Pauline because they said she 
had no nonsense about her, and did not give herself airs like 
Bee, but then Bee was a trifie spoiled. 

Geoffrey was still smoking his cigar on the common, but 
Bernard, who came next to him in age, was stretching him- 
self lazily on a corner of the couch ; he was a handsome 
young fellow of two-and-twenty, very frank and good-tem- 
pered looking, but without Geoffrey ^s cleverness. He had 
the correct Oxford cut about him, and was evidently some- 


MADELLA. 


97 


what of a dandy ; he was almost as dark as Sybil, and being 
a boating man his brown skin was tanned by exposure to the 
long-protracted east winds. 

He had been the last to greet Launcelot, and had appeared 
slightly confused at his brother's abrupt entrance, but the 
hearty grasp of his hand, and ‘ ‘ How are you. Bear, ola fellow 
had set him at his ease. 

“We only want Geoff and Freckles to be complete, ob- 
served Launcelot, presently. “ Well, Bee, you have got to 
the end of your tether at last. I don^t mean to give you a 
chance of Mentone again, so I hope you and Paul have made 
the most of your opportunities.^^ 

“Oh, yes,^^ returned his sister, with sparkling eyes; “we 
have had such a good time, — it was delicious. I never en- 
joyed myself so much in my life ; even Pauline was reconciled 
to it after the first fortnight. 

“ Yes, but I am thankful to be home again, returned Paul- 
ine, quickly, — both the girls spoke alike, in a quick decided 
way ; “ I should have been very dull at first if it had not been 
for Miss Bossiter. I can^t make friends all of a sudden, as 
Bee does. I like to take my time and be sure I like people, 
and then there is no fear of dropping them afterwards. Bee 
never minds dropping ^ople she used to know.” 

“Are you and Miss Bossiter chums still, Paul?” inquired 
Launcelot, with some interest. 

“As though you need ask,” returned Bee, with a little 
scornful curl of her lip. “ They have been inseparable this 
winter. Actually Pauline used to refuse the donkey expedi- 
tions unless Miss Bossiter went too ; people used to think Miss 
Bossiter was our sister.” 

“ She was very much admired,” put in her mother. 

“Yes,” returned Pauline, mischievously, for she was not 
above teasing her sister, “ she and Bee were rival beauties. I 
am afraid Bee has not quite got over Colonel Dacre^s remark 
that ‘ Miss Chudleigh was pretty and piquante, and all that 
sort of thing, but for a fine woman give him Miss Bossiter, — 
she was doosidly handsome, and no mistake.^ ” 

“ My dear Pauline,” remonstrated her mother, in an alarmed 
voice, and Launcelot and Bernard burst out laughing. 

“Well, mother, Colonel Dacre said it, and I am only 
quoting.” 

“ But there is no need to quote slang, Pauline.” 

“ No, it was a strong expression,” returned the girl, calmly, 
“ and of course he ought not to have used it. I never thought 
much of Colonel Dacre myself. Miss Bossiter said she was 
sure he was padded, — anyhow, he dyed his moustache,” and 
Bernard roared again. 

“ Go on, Paul ; this is rattling good sport, isn^t it, Lance?” 

“ Don^t be absurd,” returned Bee, with decided acrimony : 
“of course Pauline is only trying to tease me because I said 
she and Miss Bossiter were inseparable, but even Nora Ham- 

K g 


V« ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 

blyn said it was rather a mistake taking her about with us 
everywhere. 

Launcelot^s manner became attentive all at once. ** I hope 
BybiFs lessons did not suffer he said, quickly. 

“No, my dear, no,^^ returned his step-mother, placidly, 
“they were all very industrious in the morning. Pauline 
worked at her Italian. I got her a master as you advised, but 
of course they were free in the afternoon ; even Sybil joined 
in the donk^ excursions, you know, and of course Lady 
Hamblyn or I acted as chaperone. Bee had so many friends, 
and I wished Pauline to enjoy herself, and as Miss Rossi ter 
was young too, — well, they were all as merry as crickets. 

Launcelot received this speech a little gravely ; a close ob- 
server would have said he was not quite pleased. 

“And who are the Hamblyns?^^ he asked, and Bee took 
upon herself to answer. 

“ Oh, they are such nice people, Lance. Lady Hamblyn is 
a widow ; her husband was Baron Hamblyn ; he had soften- 
ing of the brain. Geoffrey knew about him ; they are still in 
deep mourning for him. Mr. Hamblyn, the son — Oscar they 
call him,^^ and here Bee changed color for a moment, “ is a 
barrister too ; he and Geoffrey got very intimate, and Nora 
is such a nice-looking girl,— just your sort, Launcelot.” 

“ Oh I just my sort. I have not the faintest idea what that 
is, but upon my word you seem to know,” with a touch of 
sarcasm in his voice, but he was growing secretly anxious. 
Bee^s little blush had not been lost upon him ; he had trusted 
them to remain without him all these months very reluctantly. 
He did not believe Bee was the least bit delicate ; it was all 
humbug of Dr. Tillotson saying a winter at Mentone would 
be necessary ; she had caught cold, and it had settled on her 
chest,— colds often settled on girls^ chests, — but there was 
nothing the matter with her lungs, he would take his oath of 
that, — a healthy young creature like Bee ! 

But he had been weak for once, and had given in to Ma- 
della^s earnest solicitations. The poor woman had lost one 
child ; Lily, who came between Fred and Pauline, had died 
when she was sixteen, of a chill caught when overheated by 
dancing; but then Lily had been delicate from her birth. 
But Madella had been in such agony about Bee, — was so cer- 
tain that her lung was affected, — and was in such a fuss and 
tidget altogether, that Launcelot, who never could refuse her 
anything, had yielded in spite of his better judgment. He 
had taken them over himself and had settled them in the 
villa, and had begged his step-mother to let Sybil go on regu- 
larly with her studies, and to be careful what acqiiaintances 
she allowed for the girls ; and Mrs. Chudleigh had promised 
both these things most readily. 

But he had little dreamed that his sisters and Miss Rossi ter 
would be involved in a round of gayeties. He knew nothing 
of the social evenings at the Villa Campanini, and the small 


MADELLA, 


9P 


and early evenings at the Villa Nevado, where the Hamblyns, 
still in their deep mourning, resided ; and his satirical com- 
ment on Bee^s remark only covered a deep state of anxiety, 
and a decided wish that he and not Geoffrey had fetched them 
home ; for he had forgotten all about Jack Weston and Dossie. 

Bee, who was not so clever as Pauline, did not detect the 
malice in her brother's tone. 

“Oh, Nora is very handsome,^^ she went on tranquilly, “a 
very taking girl altogether. Geoffrey was evidently struck 
with her ; she rides beautifully, and she is very clever, and so 
amusing 

“ Query observed Pauline, sottovocey and Launcelot looked 
at her sharply, and then she pursed up her lips in a droll way 
and shook her head at him. 

“ Nora is coming to stay with us next month ; I hope you 
will not mind, Launcelot? They have a house at South 
Kensington, so we shall be close neighbors. Of course they 
are not so well off now their father is dead ; there are a good 
many sons, and only the eldest is out in the world, so they 
have to be careful. Nora said they had only a small house, 
and though they still kept the brougham, she had had to give 
up her riaing-horse because of the groom. They will do 
better, she says, when the boys are settled ; one is at Cam- 
bridge and one at Woolwich, and there are two at Charter- 
house.^^ 

“ Oh, indeed returned Launcelot, in an inexplicable tone, 
that made Bernard indulge in a grin ; “ and so Miss Ham- 
blyn is coming to the Witchens 

“ If you do not mind, Launcelot, replied his sister, politely. 
“Of course you are master here.^^ 

“Yes, and Madella is mistress,” taking her hand. “Well, 
my liege lady, is Bee to have her visitor?” 

“Well, we all like Nora, Lance ; at least, I believe Pauline 
did not much care for her,” and here Pauline made one little 
moue again. “ Perhaps Lady Hamblyn is rather worldly 
for a widow, but Sir Charles was much older and a great in- 
valid, so perhaps — ” and here Mrs. Chudleigh paused impres- 
sively j—“ but we cannot be all alike — when your dear father 
died, Lance, I went out nowhere for more than two years, 
and — ” 


“Lady Hamblyn has only been a widow seven months,” 
burst in Pauline, indignantly, “ and she let the young people 
dance at her house, and Nora danced, and I do think it was 
hardly decent.” 

“Yes, but Paul,” pleaded her sister eagerly, “you must 
consider circumstances ; you know Geoffrey told us poor Sir 
Charles had been ill for more than two years, and they had 
had all that time to face it. Nora said herself that of course 
she did not mean to dance this season, only that at Rome one 
must do as the Romans did, and it did not matter abroad, 
so few people knew them. Her mother thought it selfish to 


100 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


rob them of their little pleasures, and they did not want Oscar 
to be dull, and so — ” 

“Oh, yes,” returned Pauline, impatiently, “Nora can be 
very plausible when she wants to bring you over to her side, 
but it always struck me that she wore h^er mourning more for 
the Baron Hamblyn than for the father ; there were never 
any tears in her voice when she spoke of him, but only when 
she told us about her bay mare being sold, she was pathetic 
enough then !” 

“Ah, you are always so severe on Nora,” answered Bee, 
crossly; “you are prejudicing Launcelot against her, and 
making him believe she is a frivolous sort of girl, and you 
know I wanted him to like her, — ^it does make such a differ^ 
ence when Lance likes people who stay in the house.” 

“My dear,” replied Launcelot, in a soothing voice, “ I will 
promise to be pleasant to your guest, only you must not ex- 
pect me to fall in love with her ; I am quite a reformed mem- 
ber of society in that respect, and look upon young ladies now 
from quite a brotherly point of view. I will leave our fair 
visitor expectant to Geoffrey.” 

“ Oh, hush !” from Bee, in a vexed voice ; “ I am quite sure 
Nora will never have anything to say to Geoffrey, though I 
must own — ” 

“Who is using my name?” asked that individual, walking 
into the room at that moment. “ Halloa, Lance, no one told 
me you had arrived ; how do you find yourself, old fellow?” 
shaking hands warmly, “ fresh as paint, eh? Mother,” turn- 
ing to her in a vexed sort of way, “who on earth have you 
got up-stairs? I was outside the school-room just now, and I 
heard some animal scratching and whining to get out. So I 
opened it, and there was a child curled up in a big chair half 
asleep, and a pug puppy rolling on the fioor, and Miss Rossiter 
held up her finger and begged me to go away — and — ” 

“ Good heavens, I have forgotten all about Dossie !” ex- 
claimed Launcelot, in a conscience-stricken voice. 

“And who may Dossie be?” asked Geoffrey, in a quizzical 
voice, as he noticed his brother's embarrassment, while Sybil 
jumped up from the rug in great excitement. 

“A little girl and a puppy ! oh, I must go and see !” and 
she was rushing away when Launcelot caught her. 

“You must do nothing of the kind, Sybil. Sit down and 
hold your tongue like a well-behaved child. Madella, don^t 
look so alarmed, the puppy won^t bite ; Miss Rossiter took 
Dossie up-stairs to give her some tea ; she is a little girl whom 
I want you to adopt, Madella mia,” finished Launcelot, with 
the utmost calmness. 


AM JACK’S LITTLE GIRL.” 


101 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“l AM JACK^S LITTLE GIRL.^' 

“ I clung about her neck— 

Young babes who catch at every shred of wool 
To draw the new light closer, catch and cling 
Less blindly. In my ears my father’s word 
Hummed ignorantly, as the sea in shells— 

‘Love— love my child !’ ” 

Elizabeth Babrett Bbownino. 

Mrs. Chudleigh^s exclamation of dismay was drowned in 
the general outcry that greeted Launcelot^s announcement. 
The room seemed filled with a hubbub of girlish voices and 
laughter. Bernard burst into a fit of uncontrollable merri- 
ment that seemed to annoy Geoffrey, for he bid him shut up 
with his foolery, for how on earth were they to hear each 
other speak ? 

“ Of course he is not serious, continued the young barrister, 
casting an uneasy glance, however, at Launcelot as he spoke. 
“ Why, the child is a washed-out, shabby little thing ! — not at 
all a case for adoption. I should say it is only a joke. Launce 
could not be so absurd,” finished Geoffrey, with a cynical curl 
of his hp. 

“ Couldn^t he !” returned Bernard, delighted at the oppor- 
tunity of getting a rise out of the wise Geoffrey. “Where is 
your memory, old man ? Have you forgotten that miserable 
little atom of humanity that Lance found in the gutter, whom 
mother and Bee draughted off promptly to one of Dr. Bar- 
nardo^s refuges, and the Italian hurdy-gurdy boy with the 
white mice, who had to sleep in the stable because he was so 
dirty, — oh, and the poor man with the bad leg — a very inter- 
esting case that — who made off with a dozen silver spoons the 
next morning, leaving us his blessing ; and there was the old 
woman, too, who had a bee in her bonnet, and thought she 
was en route to the New Jerusalem. Launcelot must needs 
lodge and board the old party until she thought fit to shuffle 
off this mortal coil ; not to mention Scamp, whom the boys 
were pelting to death on the common, and — ” 

“ Come, that^s enough. Bear,” interrupted Launcelot. good- 
humoredly. “ I do not want my good deeds paraded after 
this fashion.” 

But Geoffrey again struck in : 

“Oh, of course we all know LaunceloPs hobby; there is 
always some half-starved case on hand. But this appears a 
different affair altogether. Charity is one thing, and adoption 
is another ; that is why I say Launce is only joking.” 

“ No, by heavens ! I am serious,” returned Launcelot, who 


102 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


had now taken the plunge and felt quite comfortable ; indeed, 
if the truth must be known, he rather enjoyed the whole 
scene. Geoffrey^s disgusted face, the girls^ mystification, his 
step-mother^s alarm, were all sources of amusement to him. 
From sheer fun he could not forbear teasing them all a little. 
“Don^t shake your head, GeoflT; I am perfectly grave, I as- 
sure you. The child is the daughter of an old friend of mine 
who is in rather shady circumstances^^ (here there was a groan 
from Bernard) ; ‘‘he is obliged to go out to South Australia 
for some years, and I have promised him that we will look 
after Dossie in his absence. She is a nice little thing, only 
rather delicate. 

“Yes, but there is no need to have her here,^’ interrupted 
Bee, in rather a sharp voice. “ One child is enough in the 
house. Of course you will send her to school, Launce ; they 
could board her in the holidays q.s well. It will be a great 
expense, but anything would be better than inflicting her on 
us,” with a displeased toss of her head. But Bee sometimes 
gave herself airs with her elder brother. 

“Well, you need not go near the school-room unless you 
like,” returned Launcelot, quietly. “ I had no idea you dis- 
liked children so much, Bee. Pauline is very fond of them. 
Of course Dossie will live here. She will do her lessons with 
Sybil, and Miss Rossiter will look after them both.” 

“ Miss Rossiter may object to another pupil. I think you 
ought to consult her first,” observed Pauline, rather anxiously. 

‘‘My dear Paul, Miss Rossiter is under orders as long as she 
stays atthe Witchens,” replied Launcelot in atone which, quiet 
as it was, betrayed that he meant to be master. “ Of course I 
shall speak to her, but she is far too good-natured to raise any 
objection. I am sorry that you are none of you pleased with 
this addition to our family circle, but you see it is my affair 
and MadelWs” — with a gleam of fun in his eyes. “Will you 
come up with me to the school-room now?” turning to his 
step-mother ; “ I want you to see Dossie alone first. She is 
very miserable, poor little thing, at parting from her father, 
and you must be very kind to her, for she has no mother.” 

Mrs. Chudleigh did not reply, but she rose at once from hei 
seat. It did not need a second glance at her face to see how 
reluctantly she obeyed her step-son, but not for one moment 
did she try 4o resist his will. 

If Launcelot had wished her to adopt a dozen children she 
would only have remonstrated very gently with him, and then 
set herself meekly to fulfil his behest. In spite of his love for 
her he ruled her implicitly ; ever since her husband^s death 
his will had been her law. She was one of those women to 
whom a state of obedience was absolutely necessary ; power 
was a matter of indifference to her. If people only loved her, 
she would be ready to do anything in return for them. Launce- 
lot reverenced, petted, and adored her, and she repaid him 
with perfect devotion to his will. Strange to say, this depend- 


«/ AM JACK^S LITTLE GIRL,** 


m 


ence made her chief happiness ; it even consoled her in some 
measure for the loss of her husband. She never decided any- 
thing without reference to Launcelot; only once had she 
differed from him and got her own way, and that was in the 
Mentone plan. She had triumphed greatly at the time, but 
all the same she had grown a little weary of her liberty. 
M( )re than once during the winter she had suffered from an 
uneasy conviction that Launcelot might disapprove of this or 
that thing ; but Bee had taken her in hand, and had acted as 
regent in his stead. 

It would only be fair to say that Launcelot was no despot. If 
he tyrannized over his step-mother, it was certainly a very wise 
and loving tyranny. He even kept up the fiction of consult- 
ing her on every matter, though he took care to inform her of 
his decision beforehand. When the servants came to him for 
any unusual order he always gravely sent them to the mistress 
of the house. ‘‘You can mention, Fenwick, that I think so 
and so might be done,^^ he would add, rather casually. “ Oh, 
if Mr. Launcelot said that, it must be done, of course, Fen- 
wick, was Mrs. Chudleigh^s invariable reply. “ I would not 
go against his orders for the world. And with this remark 
she always silenced any grumbling on the part of the young 
people : “ My dear Geoffrey, your brother is so much older ; 
of course he knows best or, “I can^t help it. Bee ; Launce 
must have his way in this. This is his own house, remember, 
and he is not bound to keep us in it. Your father^s will would 
never have allowed me means to live as we are living now. 
You owe so much to Launce^s generosity, my darling, that any 
complaint seems ungrateful. 

Launcelot detained his step-mother for a moment as they 
crossed the hall together. 

“ Madella,^^ he said, gently, “ you are behaving like an angel 
in this ; I know you are sorry that I want Dossie to live here, 
but you won^t hurt my feelings by saying so. I call that so 
good of you.^^ 

“You are master here, Launce,^’ she replied, and there was 
a trace of sadness on her beautiful face. “ I have no right to 
question your wishes.” 

“No right, Madella? Who has a better right, I should like 
to know ? Now, listen to me for a moment, dear. You are 
so good about this, you shall be the arbiter of Dossiers fate. 
If, when you see the child and hear her little story, you decide 
it will be better not to bring her up with Sybil, you shall send 
her to school as Bee suggests ; it will be in your own hands, 
remember. Dossie is to be your child, not mine, and I will 
promise to agree with your opinion,” and as Mrs. Chudleigh^s 
face cleared at this unexpected concession to her good sense, 
the young hypocrite turned away for fear his mischievous 
eyes should betray him, for did he not know that Madella 
would be the first to plead with him for Jack^s child ? 

Dossie was wide awake and talking to Miss Rossiter as they 


104 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


entered the school-room. “ What a long time Mr. Lance is,^^ 
they heard her say. “I think he must have forgotten to 
fetch me.” 

Oh, no,” began the governess, and stopped as the door 
opened. “ Oh, there he is, and Mrs. Chudleigh too.” 

“ Dossie, will you come here a moment?” observed Launce- 
lot, holding out his hand to his prot6g6e ; but, to his surprise, 
she took no notice of him. She came forward indeed, but her 
eyes were fixed with intense wistfulness on his companion's 
face. She twisted her hands nervously, though she was not a 
shy child, and her face worked as though she were going to 
cry. 

Is this Aunt Della?” she asked, somewhat awed by Mrs. 
Chudleigh^s stately presence ; but of course it must be. 
Aunt Delli^ I have got to say something and I am trying to re- 
member. Oh, I know,” and here Dossie shut her eyes tightly. 
‘ Please I am Jack^s little girl and he wants you to love me. 
You were very good to him when he was a little boy, and he 
knows you will be good to me, and he sends his love,^ and T 
think that was all.” 

Mrs. Chudleigh became very pale ; she looked at her step-son 
helplessly. 

” What does she mean, Launce ? Jack ? She cannot mean 
my poor lost Jack !” but here Miss Rossi ter softly left the 
room. 

“Yes,” returned Launcelot, with a reassuring smile, “this 
is Dorothea Penelope Weston, your own brother's child, your 
only niece. Aunt Della, — yes, of course you are Aunt Della 
to Dossie and as he spoke, Mrs. Chudleigh drew the child 
closer to her. 

“My darling! Can it be possible; Jack^s child? my poor 
foolish boy. Jack ! and your mother is dead ? Oh, don^t cry, 
please don^t cry. You shall be my own dear little girl ;” but 
the tears were running down Mrs. Chudleigh ^s face as she 
lifted Dossie on her lap ; and it was Dossie who wiped them 
away with her own coarse little handkerchief. 

“Aunt Della, I am sure I shall love you,” she whispered, 
laying her head on her shoulder, and Mrs. Chudleigh kissed 
her and cried over her in the most motherly way, while 
Launcelot watched them both with infinite content. 

“ Is she to go to school, or learn her lessons with Sybil?” he 
asked, presently, when Dossie had told her pitiful little story 
of how father had left her and gone away to the other end of 
the world. 

“ Of course I don^t mean to part with her !” returned Mrs. 
Chudleigh indignantly. “Please don^t interrupt the child, 
Launcelot. Yes, darling, so he sat all those hours in the dark 
beside you ; that was so like Jack, he was always so kind- 
hearted.” 

Launcelot left them for a little while and went in search of 
Miss Rossiter, to whom he explained matters more fully, but 


«/ AM JACKS LITTLE GIRL.^^ 105 

when he came back, they were still at it and his step-mother 
was ciying bitterly. 

This is wrong, he said, taking her hand ; “ you will make 
yourself ill. Tell Aunt Della she must not cry any more, 
Dossie.^^ 

And Dossie put her thin little arms round her aunt^s neck. 

“ Oh, please don’t, poor father would be so sorry,” she whis- 
pered, laying her cheek against Mrs. Chudleigh’s ; but Mrs. 
Chudleigh continued to sob in a most heai t-broken way. 

“It is not your fault, my darling; but if I had only seen 
him before he went away, — it is that that frets me so. To 
think that I was away when he wanted me, and all these 
years I have so longed to see him. Ah, it is too hard, Launce- 
lot.” And he had some trouble in consoling her, though he 
managed to pacify her at last. She would not hear of Dossie 
leaving them that night, so Launcelot sent off a note to Miss 
Thorpe ; then he begged Miss Rossiter to take the child away 
for a little, and sitting down by his step-mother he gave her a 
full account of his meeting with Jack and all that he could 
remember of Jack’s married life. 

“You can write to him, poor fellow, and tell him you have 
forgiven him for all his neglect.” 

“ Of course I have forgiven him. Is it not until * seventy 
times seven,’ Launce ? and my poor Jack never meant to be 
unkind. On, I am so glad his wife was so good to him, — poor 
Penelope, ana I never even saw her. I think Dossie has Jack’s 
eyes, but she is not really like him,” and so she rambled on, 
now bemoaning poor Jack, and now making plans for Dossie’s 
comfort, until Launcelot gently reminded her that the dress- 
ing-gong had long sounded, and that so much talking and ex- 
citement would make her head ache, and then she consented 
to retire to her room. 

.The rest of the party had long ago exhausted their grum- 
bling, and had separated to his or her private domains, and they 
had only just reassembled at the sound of the gong when Mrs. 
Chudleigh entered the room, looking rather tired and worn 
from so much emotion, but with a soft satisfied smile on her 
face, and leading by the hand a little pale girl in a shabby 
brown frock. 

GeoflTrey only deigned one glance and went on with his 
paper, but Bernard’s white teeth gleamed under his mous- 
tache, while Bee looked haughtily at her brothers. 

“ My dears,” said Mrs. Chudleigh, placidly, “ I have a great 
surprise for you ; this is your own little cousin Dorothea. 
Some of you elder ones may remember your uncle Jack ; at 
least, I think Geoffrey once saw him, but I am not sure. 
Circumstances have kept us apart all these years, but I was 
always very fond of him. Dear Launcelot has seen a great 
deal of him lately, and now he has brought me his little 
motherless child to keep for Jack’s sake, until he comes 
home.” 


106 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


“Oh, that makes a difference, observed Geoffrey, coolly, 
laying down his paper. “ I did not know she was a relation. 
How do you do, Dorothea?” shaking hands with her stiffly. 

Bee followed Geoffrey^s example, with a cold kiss, but 
Pauline was far more cordial in her greeting. 

“ Of course you are pleased, mother. No, I never remember 
hearing about Uncle Jack, but it was nice of Launce to bring 
the child here. Come and speak to your cousin, Sybil : you 
two children must be great friends. Dossie, — what a funny 
little name, but we must keep Dorothea until you are grown 
out.” 

“This is the big doll, I suppose?” observed Sybil, with a 
contemptuous glance at her eldest brother. “What a stupid 
joke ! Geoffrey made me so cross when he repeated it.” But 
she condescended to take Beppo in her arms, and to question 
Dossie a little, after the fashion of a spoiled child, while 
Bernard regarded them with extreme amusement, but with- 
out leaving his favorite corner. 

“ I am a cousin too,” he observed, when opportunity brought 
him in contact with the child. 

“Yes, I know; you are Bear,” replied Dossie, without the 
least embarrassment. “ I have made you a pincushion too, — 
dark blue, Oxford color you know, — because Mr. Lance says 
you are an Oxford man.” 

“Sharp child that,” observed Bernard, sotto voce; but he 
continued with much gravity : “ You must call him Cousin 
Launcelot, not Mr. Lance.” 

“No, he is not my own cousin, father told me so ; he is only 
Mr. Lance. Geoffrey is my cousin, and you and Fred too. Oh, I 
know all about it,” finished Dossie with rather an important 
air, feeling herself suddenly enriched by so many relations. 
She looked round benignantly at them as they laughed. Yes, 
they were all very nice, but she thought she liked Pauline 
and Bernard best. 

“Come and sit by me, darling,” observed Mrs. Chudleigh, 
in her soft, motherly voice. “ Don^t laugh at the poor child. 
Geoffrey ; she must feel very strange among you all.” Bui 
she was wrong. Dossie was "happier than she had been yet. 
She was in her dear Mr. Lance’s home, and this kind, lovely 
lady was her aunt Della, and the pretty girls in the white 
gowns were her cousins ; and there were Geoffrey and Bernard, 
for whom shehad made the pincushions, and that nice, friendly 
Miss Rossi ter. What a lot of nice people ! Oh, if only her 
father could be there too ! and Dossiers blue eyes grew sad and 
wistful again. It was Miss Rossi ter who noticed the child’s 
drooping looks, and who good-naturedly offered to withdraw 
with her and see her comfortably in bed. “Emma can do it 
another night, but I will attend to my new little pupil this 
evening,” she said pleasantly, and Mrs. Chudleigh thanked 
her quite gratefully. 

Just as they were leaving the room Bernard, who, in spite 


AM JACi^ S LITTLE GIRL.** 


107 


of his lymphatic manner, never forgot a personas likes or dis- 
likes, pointed out feelingly to Miss Rossiter the box of French 
bonbons in the centre of the table. 

Oh, Bear,^^ retorted Launcelot, who had noticed this little 
by-play, ** many good people in this world have to go without 
their deserts,’^ for which vile pun Sybil pinched him. 

Miss Rossiter looked him full in the face and dropped him 
a mocking little courtesy. She looked very handsome to-night 
In her soft silvery dress and a dark crimson rose nestling at 
her white throat. 

“ I have known bad people who have escaped their deserts 
also,^^ she said, with a droll smile. “ Come, Dossie, my child, 
and they went out together hand in hand. 

It was hardly surprising that people wondered that Mrs. 
Chudleigh treated her young governess with such injudicious 
familiarity. Very few mothers with three grown-up sons 
would have ventured on engaging such a striking-looking 
young woman, but such thoughts never occurred to Mrs. 
Chudleigh. 

It was one of her idiosyncrasies to care rather too much for 
the good looks of those who surrounded her ; a plain face was 
almost an eye-sore to her. 

“I cannot help my nature,^' she said once to Launcelot, 
who was teasing her on the subject. “ I do love pretty faces 
and things. I cannot half like people until I find something 
to admire in them. When I see a very unprepossessing per- 
son I am always obliged to find some good point in them 
before I can be satisfied. There is always something, she 
finished, contentedly, “ either a nice expression or a pleasant 
voice, or a pretty figure or hand. Very few people are unre- 
deemably ugly, thank heaven.^' 

“ Amen,^^ returned Launcelot, piously, and then he added, 
“ but there are lots of faces one sees every day that one never 
wishes to see again ; but no doubt you are right,— ladies always 
are.^^ 

As soon as they were left alone, Launcelot looked round the 
table with what Bernard always termed his Bless-you-my- 
children^^ expression. 

“ Oh,’^ he said, drawing a deep sigh of contentment, ‘‘ what 
a treat it will be to box Freckles’s ears to-morrow,” and as they 
all laughed at this, he continued with much solemnity, Ma- 
della, you and the girls must never leave me so long again.” 

“Why,” asked Sybil, with great curiosity, “have you got 
into mischief, Launce?” — a question that highly amused Ber- 
nard. 

“ No, my dear, no,” shaking his head ; “ but a man without 
his womankind is an odd sort of animal. Fancy GeofiT and 
myself in this big house : why, we could not stand it. We 
used to take to argument, but he always beat me, so we got 
tired of that. No, Bee, you must try your little games else- 
where. I can’t let you all so easily out of leading-strings.” 


108 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


‘‘How can you be so foolish she answered, rather pet* 
tishly. “ I could not help being ill, could I, mother?” 

“No, my darling, of course not. Launce is only joking.” 

“ Yes, but there is always something beneath his jokes,” her 
color rising. “ He thinks it is my fault that we stopped so 
long away. That sprain was certainly very unfortunate, as 
it detained us a fortnight longer.” 

“ Yes, but Bee,” interposed Pauline, eagerly, “if it had not 
been for that last fortnight we should never have got to know 
the Maxwells. Is it not strange, Launce,” turning to him, 
“ actually some Biversleigh people came over from Montreux 
about three weeks before we left? They took the Ericsons^ 
rooms in the next villa to ours, and we saw so much of them. 
Dr. Maxwell doctored Bee^s ankle.” 

“Maxwell — do I know the name?” returned Launcelot, 
thoughtfully ; “ somehow it seems familiar to me.” 

“ Well, they have only just come to Biversleigh. Dr. Max* 
well is Mr. Malcolmson’s new partner, and they have taken that 
old house in Wootten Boad, — Bridge House. Charlotte, that 
is. Miss Maxwell, told me all about it; it does seem so sad.” 

“ Come, Paul, that is rather vague. Of what does the sad- 
ness consist?” 

“Why,” she said, with an apologetic laugh, “Dr. Maxwell 
is quite young and getting on so nicely in his profession, and, 
as his sister remarked, they thought he would do so well, and 
then their father died, and they found everything was mort- 
gaged. There was nothing at all for them to live on, so Dr. 
Maxwell took a bigger house, and they have settled at Bivers- 
leigh with him, and it does seem hard, as Charlotte said.” 

“Pauline was hardly civil to the Hamblyns, but she and 
Miss Bossiter were always with Miss Maxwell,” observed Bee, 
with an annoyed air, “ though what they could both see in 
that plain, awkward girl is more than I can say.” 

“ Ye^ but Maxwell is a nice gentlemanly fellow,” inter- 
posed Geoffrey, in an amicable tone ; “ I think Launce would 
like him. It is hard lines, as Paul says, for a man of his age 
to be saddled with a family.” 

“Are there many of them?” asked Launcelot, who was 
listening with great attention. He was evidently bent on 
extracting every possible particular relating to the Mentone 
friends. The^rls had always chatted frankly to him of their 
doings ; even Bee, who could be a rebel at times, was never 
quite happy unless Launcelot approved of her little plans. 

Pauline was quite ready to satisfy his curiosity. 

“Yes, indeed, — there is Mrs. Maxwell, who is rather an 
invalid, and her blind sister. Aunt Myra as they call her, who 
has always lived with them ; and the eldest sister, Brenda, has 
spinal conmlaint, and Prissy, the youngest one, is dreadfully 
delicate. That is why they went to Montreux, but it has not 
done her much good, and Charlotte says they will not be able 
to afford it again.” 


THE TERRACE AT THE WITCHENS, 


109 


Launcelot began counting on his fingers in Dundreary 
fashion. Invalid mother, number one; blind auut, — a stag- 
gerer that, as Dick Swiveller would say, — number two ; sister 
with spinal disease, number three ; ditto with consumptive 
tendency, number four. Geoff is right ; it, is hard lines, a 
dilapidated family like that.^^ 

“ Yes, but, Launce, there are two sisters who married and 
went to India, who were quite strong, and Charlotte says she 
and her brother are as tough as possible, and she only regrets 
that she cannot help him by teaching, only with all those in- 
valids she has as much as she can do. I did not care much 
for the younger sister Prissy, she struck me as rather exacting 
and selfish, but Bee liked her best.^^ 

“ Well, she is a nice, well-mannered sort of girl. I should 
have been fonder of her company if she had talked less of her- 
self and her ailments. Geoff agreed with me ; he called hei 
little Miss I. I., but he did not take to Miss Maxwell. 

“ No, she is too strong-minded for me.^’ 

“Yes, and m gauche,^ ^ 

“ Maxwell is the best of the bunch. What is it, mother?” 
for Mrs. Chudleigh seemed a little restless and distracted. 

“ Do not let me disturb you, my dears. Of course Launcelot 
wants to hear all about your friends, but if you will excuse me 
I should like to see if Dossie be comfortable.” 

“ Ah, Dame Partlett wants to be fussing over her new child,” 
observed Launcelot, rising to open the door. “ Don’t let her talk 
any more to-night, Madella mia. Dossie is very excitable.” 

“ Oh, you may trust me. I think I understand children,’' 
returned Mrs. Chudleigh, with an amused smile. “I only 
want to see how she looks when she is asleep — poor little 
dear I” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE TERRACE AT THE WITCHENS. 

“ I’m young in age, and younger still, I think. 

As a woman.” 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

As soon as Launcelot had closed the door he came back to 
his place, and told his brothers and sisters that he wanted to 
say a word to them. 

“Hear, hear!” observed Bernard, rapping on the table to 
enforce attention. “ Old Launce is going to make us a speech.” 

“No, my dear boy, nothing of the kind. I ouly want to 
ask you as a personal favor to myself, as well as to your mother, 
to be as kind as possible to poor little Dossie, and to give you 
an opportunity of asking me any questions you like about 

10 


no 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


her for Launcelot knew that the girls at least were dying 
of curiosity, which their good feelings obliged them to restrain 
in their mother^ s presence. 

Of course he was overwhelmed with questions about this 
unknown Uncle Jack in a moment, which he answered to 
the best of his ability. 

** He is a very nice fellow, and I am sure you would all like 
him,^' he finished, ‘‘and though he has been down on his 
luck all these years, and has made the grievous mistake of 
keeping aloof from his own family, I fancy he has turned the 
awkward corner now, and means to be a credit to us all.^^ 

“ I wish Dossie was a pretty child, observed Bee, with lan- 
guid interest, while Geoffrey muttered something about 
“ children being a bore in a house. 

“ I think she will be a godsend to Sybil, replied Launcelot ; 
“ you have all spoiled that little monkey among you. Dossie 
is a good little thing, and you will all like her in time.^^ 

“ Launce’s geese are always swans, was Bernard’s imperti- 
nent observation after this. 

“Come, that is hardly fair. Bear. I think I am a pretty 
good judge of character,” returned Launcelot, who was the 
least bit touchy on this point ; he prided himself on a very 
nice discrimination, and though, like other mortals, he was 
sometimes liable to error, he never like to be reminded of any 
past mistakes ; to the end he wished his geese to remain 
swans. 

The discussion ended after this. Geoffrey and Bernard rt* 
tired to the billiard-room, and Bee went in search of her 
mother, but Launcelot linked his arm in Pauline’s and asked 
her to keep him company for a little. He made no outward 
distinction between his sisters, for he was very fond of them 
both, but in reality Pauline was his favorite. She was very sen- 
sible and matter-of-fact, and he could rely on her thoroughly. 
She was more amicable than Bee, who had her little tempers, 
but they were both bright happy young creatures, and he was 
justly proud of them. 

As they sauntered through the hall, arm in arm, they came 
upon Miss Rossiter, who was standing in the glass entry look- 
ing out into the moonlighted courtyard, for the bare sweep of 
gravel walk before the house, closed in by high walls, gave 
one the idea of a courtyard. 

“Oh, there is Huldah,” exclaimed Pauline, rather un- 
guardedly; and as Launcelot looked a little surprised, she 
added quickly, “ I only call her by her Christian name when 
we are alone, because Bee is so tiresome about my liking her 
so much ; but I cannot help it, she is a dear girl, and I am 
very fond of her.” 

“ That is right, stick up for your friend, Paul,” returned her 
brother, in a low tone of hearty commendation, and then 
aloud, “What a lovely night. Miss Rossiter ; are you studying 
aatronomy, or only star-gazing ?” 


THE TERRACE AT THE WITCHEN8. 


Ill 


As she turned with a slight start, he saw she looked rather 
pale, and he fancied there were tears in her eyes. 

^‘Oh, do let us go down to the terrace, pleaded Pauline. 
“ Think how beautiful the common will look ; we will wrap 
ourselves up, Launce, so there can be no possible harm,^^ and as 
her brother made no audible objection, she darted to the oak 
settle and caught up some fur-lined cloaks that still lay there. 

You had better go without me,^^ observed Miss Rossiter. 
“Mrs. Chudleigh may want me.^^ 

“ Nonsense, returned Launcelot vigorously to this, and 
Miss Rossiter drew the hood over her bright hair, the soft 
lining of fur setting off her charming face, and accompanied 
them without another word. 

“Oh, how delicious exclaimed Pauline, when they had 
gained the terrace, and were leaning against the low wall 
looking over the common. The broad expanse of heath was 
bathed in the pure silvery light ; the gorse, broom, and even 
the rough brambles, seemed touched with a separate glory and 
radiance ; the clump of young firs in the distance stood up 
dark and distinct against the sky ; a few twinkling lights from 
the village, or rather the little town, of Brentwood quivered 
from the hollow ; a gaslight or two among the trees near the 
front entrance of the Witchens gave a sort of cheerfulness to 
the scene. 

Pauline heaved a deep sigh of content. 

“ How I do love this place she said, enthusiastically. “ I 
think it would break my heart to leave the Witchens ; mother 
is always telling us that we shall have to turn out when you 
marry, Launce, but somehow I never seem to realize it.^^ 

“I dare say not. I don^t realize it myself,^^ was the cool 
answer, but a queer look passed over Launcelot^s face as he 
spoke, and the next moment he asked Miss Rossiter, who was 
standing by him, if she had ever experienced what the Ger- 
mans so forcibly term “ heimweh^’ ? 

“You mean home-sickness, do you not? No, never,^^ she 
replied, in a very low voice. “ Pauline used to suffer from it 
often when she was away, but 1 hardly wondered at her, such 
a beautiful home as this, and such happy faces in it.^^ 

“ My dear Huldah, what a tragical voice ! One would think 
you had never known what a happy home was. That is tho 
impression she gives ; is it not, Launce 
“What is your definition of a home?^^ she returned, fixing 
her large eloquent eyes on Launcelot as she spoke. She often 
had these grave moods when she was with him and Pauline ; 
and Launcelot had often thought how well they became her. 
He liked the ebuliitions of deep feeling that he sometimes 
could evoke by a word, the swift alternation from grave to 
gay, the brief sombreness so soon replaced by childlike mirth. 
Launcelot liked these varying moods, he admired them as he 
admired the varying tints of a transparent complexion, or the 
changes of a cloudy April sky, — nature delighted in thes9 


112 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


swift metamorphoses, and he delighted in them too. He had 
always been interested in Miss Bossiter, but he had never ad- 
mired her so much as he did to-night. Either she had grown 
handsomer since he had last seen her, or he viewed her under 
a different aspect, but there was some fresh development in 
her, — a new witchery to which he was keenly alive to-night. 
“What a beautiful creature she is,^^ he thought, as she turned 
her hooded face full on him. “ I am rather bad at defini- 
tions,” he answered, rather provokingly, for he was making a 
mental sketch of her for future use ; “ if you consult Web- 
ster, — and he is a very useful fellow in his way, — you will find 
that he defines home very properly and correctly as a ‘ dwel- 
ling-house ; the house where one resides ; the place or country 
where one dwells, and also all that pertains to a dwelling- 
place f but he adds a quotation from Dry den, that ‘Home is 
the sacred refuge of our life.^ I think old Dry den is right 
there.” 

“Then I have never known such a home,” returned the 
young governess, in a voice so low that only Launcelot heard 
her ; indeed, the words seemed to escape her without her will, 
so he took no notice and Pauline interposed eagerly. 

“ Yes, that is just what home ought to be, a refuge from the 
world outside : not merely four walls and a roof, but a place 
where people may speak the truth and not offend.” 

“ Contradict each other to their hearts^ content?” annotated 
Launcelot. 

“Yes, quarrel and make it up a dozen times a day if they 
like, rub against each other^s angles, and love each other all 
the better for the friction.” 

“Where one fellow may refuse to laugh at another fellow^s 
jokes without being sat upon,” observed Launcelot, feelingly. 

“ Oh, of course ; how often you have told Bear to shut up, 
and not make an ass of himself.” 

“ True ; but I never remember that he ever did shut up.” 

“No, but he never minded you telling him. Bear is such a 
sweet-tempered boy. Why, even Geoffrey lets himself be 
snubbed sometimes, when Bee is in one of her little black-day 
moods, but who cares for Bee^s sharp speeches? why, the 
very essence of home-life is that one can say and do what one 
likes.” 

“ Oh, one could live in a home like that,” observed Miss 
Bossiter, with a sigh. “ I don^t think I ever knew a family 
like yours, Mr. Chudleigh ; you are all so different, not one of 
you alike, and yet you never really auarrel, it is only make- 
believe ; you are all so fond and proud of each other, that you 
do not think there is such another family in England.” 

“ Oh, we are well enough,” he retorted, with a laugh ; “ they 
are all good boys and girls on the whole.” 

“If they were not, you would still be fond of them,” she 
returned, with the same earnestness. “ They are sacred to 
you, and all their faults are as nothing, because you just love 


THE TERRACE AT THE WITCHENS. 113 

them ; it is this tolerance, this wide charity, that makes the 
beauty of your home.^^ 

‘‘Yes; but, Huldah, most brothers and sisters love each 
other. 

“Do they?” in a melancholy tone. “Well, I am no fair 
judge, for I never had brother or sister. Home has only been 
to me the four walls and roof, until I came here.” 

“ Come, I scent a compliment. You are going to tell us 
that we have made you happy.” 

“ I should be very ungrateful to deny it, when you have all 
been so good to me. What do I not owe to Mrs. Chudleigh, 
and to you, Pauline?” 

“ Nonsense !” returned that young person, bluntly. 

“ I used to hate the thought of being a governess. I thought 
I should be left out in the cold, and made to keep my place in 
the school-room, but your sisters are so good to me, Mr. Chud- 
leigh, Pauline especially, that I feel as though I have lived 
here all my life.” 

“ I am glad to hear it,” was the cordial answer ; “ and you 
had a good time with the girls at Mentone?” 

“ Oh, yes ; it was delightful. We were all so happy, only 
E was sorry we did not have the earthquake that was pre- 
dicted.” 

“ Miss Rossi ter ! I hope you are not serious.” 

“That is right, Launce ; she deserves a good scolding. 1 
never heard anything more wicked.” 

“Then I have shocked you both. I am always shocking 
people ; but you must not misunderstand me. I did not wish 
for an earthquake, — that would be too dreadful ; but if there 
had been one I should have liked to have been there at the 
time.” 

“Oh, but Geoffrey said it was all nonsense ; it was never 
predicted at all. Can you understand such a morbid craving, 
Launce? Why, I should have wished myself a hundred miles 
away.” 

“So should I. I object on principle to any stampede or 
panic. A crowd mad with fear must be a most unedifying 
sight. Miss Rossiter,” in a serio-comic voice, “I feel half 
inclined to move a little farther away after that remark ; your 
close vicinity makes me uneasy.” 

“You doubt my sanity?” laughing. “Well, I own it was 
rather an extraordinary speech. I dare say I should have been 
as terrified as other people if it had really happened, but I do 
enjoy a new sensation.” 

“ In— deed?” in a slow, drawling tone. 

“A storm at sea, — now that would be grand ; even a ship- 
wreck, if one could be sure of being saved ; or a fire. Oh, I 
have always longed to see a fire ; the very descriptions are 
enough. Only, of course, I mean without loss of life.” 

“Huldah, I do wish you would not talk so wildly,” re- 
turned Pauline, in a vexed voice. ““It always troubles me 
A 


114 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


when you go on like this. Launcelot is only laughing at yoa 
He does not believe for a moment that you are serious, neither 
do I. Why, I never can endure that chapter about Korah, 
Dathan, and Abiram. It quite makes me sigh to think of the 
little ones going down into the pit.” 

‘‘My dear Paul, you and I are sober matter-of-fact people. 
We like our sensations to be pleasant ones, and care nothing 
about their novelty.” 

“ Of course. I deserve to be laughed at.” in a slightly in- 
jured tone. ‘‘ I ought not to tell out my thoughts in that ab- 
surd way, but I cannot help my nature. Anything is better 
than stagnation and monotony. Some lives remind me of 
the blind horse at the mill; they seem to turn round and 
round with undeviating precision, not a footstep out of the 
track. Oh, I should go mad if I were to lead that sort of 
life !” 

“You would prefer wandering over the earth in search of 
cataclysms and catastrophes of all descriptions. Vesuvius 
must light its fire for you : Hecla boil with fury, — torpedoes 
and snakes, prairie fires and gigantic railway accidents, — upon 
my word, I hardly know how we are to cater for your morbid 
appetite in London.” 

“ Mr. Chudleigh, you will make me very angry directly,” 
with an impatient stamp of her foot ; “ but I will not lay my- 
self open to your satire any more. Of course, I know I have 
expressed myself awkwardly. What I really meant was that 
1 would rather know life under its wider and more terrible 
aspects, than go on day after day leading the meagre exist- 
ences that some people lead,— doing just the same things, 
saying almost the same words, fearing to move a hair^s breadth 
out of their narrow groove. Why, people who live in that 
way remind me of some convicts I once saw exercising in a 
prison-yard. Oh, the great black walls, and the dreary sky- 
lines, and the horrible dulness of those faces 1” and she 
shivered. “Why do they not go mad or kill themselves? I 
should, in their place.” 

“ Miss Rossiter, I am afraid that you are exciting yourself.” 

“ That is bidding me hold my tongue.” 

“ Please do not accuse me of such rudeness ; but all the 
same it is my turn now.” 

“Oh, I am going in,” she returned, provokingly. “You 
must keep your little lecture for to-morrow night.” 

“We can walk and talk at the same time,” he replied, 
coolly. “ Pauline, we are going back to the house now ; the 
terrace is too cold for you. Miss Rossiter, will you please give 
me your attention a moment?” turning to her with a good- 
natured air ; and in spite of her reluctance she was obliged to 
listen. 

“ I think you have talked a good deal of nonsense to-night, 
but we will let that pass. Young ladies often do talk non- 
f«nse, and no one thinks the worse of them ; but, unfortu- 


THE TERRACE AT THE WITCH E NS. 


110 


oately, there seems a method in your madness. Like all in- 
sane people you evidently believe yourself sane, — you actually 
mean what you say.” 

“ I mean every word — every word !” 

“ Oh !” with a sort of lofty pity that galled her more than 
his satire. “ That shows how very young you must be. You 
are finding fault with quiet, matter-of-fact lives. They are — 
according to you — prosy, monotonous, unutterably dreary ; 
but you are making a grave mistake. It is not the life, but 
the environment, of which you are speaking.” 

Oh, you are too clever for me, Mr. Chiidleigh ; I am not 
capable of making such nice distinctions.” 

“ But you are capable of feeling them,” he persisted. “ Now 
listen to me, I am going to repeat a passage from a favorite 
author of mine, Grindon. I have read it over until I know 
it by heart. He is speaking, in his chapter on Longevity, of 
the true measurement of life. He says, ‘ Real, human life is 
immeasurable, if — digest this ‘if,^ Miss Rossi ter — ‘we will 
have it so,^ and then he goes on, ‘ Every day,^ remarks Goethe, 
in his autobiography, ‘ is a vessel into which a great deal may 
be poured, if we will actually fill it up ; that is with thoughts 
and feelings and their expression into deeds as elevated and 
amiable as we can reach to and then he goes on to quote 
from Martineau^s ‘Endeavors after the Christian Life.^ 
‘“The mere lapse of years is not life. To eat, and drink, 
and sleep, to be exposed to the darkness and light, to pace 
round the mill of habit” ^ — like your blind horse, eh? — ‘ “ and 
turn the wheel of wealth ; to make reason our book-keeper 
and convert thought into an implement of trade ; this is not 
life. In all this but a poor fraction of the consciousness of 
humanity is awakened, and the sanctities still slumber which 
make it most worth while to be. 

‘ “ Knowledge, truth, love, beauty, goodness, faith, alone 
give vitality the mechanism of existence.” ^ ” 

“ That is beautiful,” murmured Pauline. Miss Rossiter only 
said, coldly, “ You have a good memory,” but all the same he 
knew how attentively she had listened. 

“ I can say nothing half so wise as that ; it is admirable 
philosophy, but I feel I must set you right on one point. No 
human life, however humdrum and uninteresting it may 
appear to a looker-on, is really commonplace ; it is not com- 
monplace or uninteresting to be born, to die, to have the 
breath of life in our nostrils, to be made in the image of God. 
No, you are wrong,” throwing back his head with a quick, 
passionate movement that seemed to awe Miss Rossiter, for 
she looked at him as though fascinated in spite of herself. 
“ Often and often behind these dull tedious lives, as you call 
them, lie hidden tragedies, — confiicts which leave their scars 
forever. Many are thankful for the quiet routine that dulls 
the memory of ‘ the too vividly painted past.^ Yes, they fear 
to move out of their groove for very dread of meeting some 


116 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


pale ghost of their buried and gone happiness,” but here he 
stopped abruptly, for a low sob escaped Miss Ross iter. 

“No, no; I will not believe you,” she said, in a choked 
voice. “Oh, how you pain me ! It cannot be so ! No one 
could live down misery in that way,” and then she paused 
and looked at him in a half-frightened manner, as the ugh im- 
ploring him to take back his words. 

“I think I have spoken the truth,” he returned, gently, 
“ but indeed I did not mean to pain you. I was only speak- 
ing as I should to Beatrix or Pauline, if they indulged in 
such exaggerated talk. You were too hard upon other people, 
you only looked on the outside of things. You must go deeper. 
You must learn charity before you judge truly of life.” 

“Yes,” she replied, humbly, “I know you meant it only 
for my good. I have been very foolish, I ought not to have 
talked so. May I wish you good-night now, for I am very 
tired ?” 

“I am sorry I tired you,” he answered, penitently, “but I 
cannot wish one of my words unsaid.” 

“No, indeed,” observed Pauline, when their companion's 
graceful figure had turned the angle of the house. “I am 
very glad you spoke so seriously, Launce. I am very fond of 
Huldah, — indeed I may say I love her, — but there are times 
when she distresses me by this wild, flighty talk of hers. I 
sometimes think how shocked mother would be to hear her, 
but Huldah is always careful in her presence.” 

“Ah,” he returned, absently, “she is young and undisci- 
plined, and she has never known a home,” and then they 
reached the house, and Launcelot bade his sister an alfec- 
tionate good-night and went to his studio. 

It had been added recently to the house, and the only en- 
trance was through a small conservatory. 

The room was quite dark when he entered it, but he lighted 
a small bronze lamp that stood on the writing-table and seated 
himself in a carved antique chair placed beside it. 

It was an immense room, very finely proportioned, and was 
furnished with great care. The studio proper, with its north 
light and raised dais, only occupied half the space, and velvet 
curtains, at present undrawn, could at any moment shut off 
the tall easel and half-finished canvases and all the artistic 
odds and ends4hat usually litter an artistes studio. 

The other end of the room was charming, and was fitted up 
as a gentleman’s study. A bay window with a deep recess 
commanded a view of the lawn, a cushioned seat and a low 
tea-table occupied this space ; carved bookcases, cabinets, and 
one or two choice landscapes, and a beautiful marble bust of 
Mrs. Chudleigh filled up the walls and niches, — a portrait of 
her, painted by Launcelot himself, was placed opposite the 
writing-table. A reading-desk and some easy-chairs com- 
pleted the furniture ; handsome oriental rugs and a skin or 
two covered portions of the dark, polished floor. 


THE TERRACE AT THE WITCHENS, 


117 


As Launcelot laid his head against the back of his chair 
he wondered what Jack would think of such a studio, and 
then he meditated how he was to get Miss Rossiter to sit to 
him for his new picture. 

“ I wanted just that type of face for my central figure, he 
thought, “‘My sonnets faire wife Elizabeth.^ I always 
imagined her with just that ruddy brown hair, moving across 
the grassy lea with her two children, and he softly quoted 
to himself the quaint lines, — 

** That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, 

That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; 

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 

To manye more than myne and mee 
But each will mourn his own (she saith), 

And sweeter woman ne’er drew breath, 

Than my sonne’s wife Elizabeth.” 

“Madella must manage it for me,” he continued, solilo- 
quizing half dreamily; “her face is just what I want, but 
there is no motherhood in it ; the children must be young, 
mere toddling mites. 

“ And dark against day’s golden death 
She moveth where Lindis wandereth, 

My sonne’s faire wife Elizabeth.” 

And then he crossed the room, lamp in hand, and looked 
long and thoughtfully at the canvas stretched on the easel. 

“ She is an extraordinary girl,” he muttered, “ but I found 
her very interesting to-night. She is more than interesting, 
she takes hold of one's imagination somehow ; she has never 
been out of my mind a single day all this time ; she is a 
woman that one cannot forget. If she were to marry, I do 
not believe her husband would lead a very prosaic existence ! 
She is very exciting ; a man would hardly find her restful.” 
And then he made a sort of grimace and shook himself, but 
there was a strange glow in his eyes, as he turned away 
humming the musical lines of Jean Ingelow's poem that had 
been floating in his head for days : 

“ Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! calling 
Ere the early dews were falling, 

Farre away, I heard her sing, 

Cusha ! Cusha ! all along. 

Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 

Flo wet h, floweth. 

From tt e meads where mellch growoth 
Faintly came her milking song.” 


118 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


CHAPTER XV. 

“my sonnets faire wife elizabeth.^^ 

“One can sometimes love that which we do not understand, but It la 
Impossible clearly to understand what we do not love.”— Qrindon’s 
lAfe and Nature. 

Launcelot drove Dossie down to Priory Road the next 
morning to explain matters more thoroughly to Miss Thorpe, 
and to bring away the shabby portmanteau that held the 
child^s scanty wardrobe. 

“She looks brighter already, observed Miss Thorpe, when 
Dossie had left the room on some errand, and she was right ; 
even a few hours had made a difference in her appearance. 

The child had found herself all at once surrounded by kind, 
friendly faces ; she had awakened from a troubled dream the 
previous night to see her aunt Della beside her. Dossie had 
sobbed out all her confused, half-waking grief in those kind 
arms. The forlorn little creature, so suddenly weighted with 
trouble, was not left to battle through the dark miserable hour 
alone, — no, that was not Mrs. Chudleigh^s way, — she had fallen 
asleep again comforted, and still holding her aunt’s hand, and 
her refreshing morning’s slumbers had been broken by Sybil, 
who stood by her cousin’s bed with her hands full of spring 
flowers that she and Miss Rossi ter had just gathered. 

“ You were so fast asleep that we did not like to rouse you,” 
Sybil said. “You must be dreadfully tired, Dossie, not to 
wake this lovely morning. Why, we have been for quite a 
long walk ; all round the garden and across the common.” 

“Lie still, and I will bring you some breakfast, my dear,” 
added Miss Rossiter, who had followed Sybil, and she kissed 
Dossie very affectionately. Dossie did as she was told, and 
lay very contentedly watching the governess arrange the 
flowers. Miss Rossiter looked as bright as the spring morn- 
ing, glowing with fresh air and exercise,— a very different 
b€ing to the girl whose wild talk had jarred upon Pauline’s 
sense of fitness; earthqiiakes, uncongenial homes, sombre 
fancies were all relegated to the dead past. Evidently things 
wore a brighter aspect for her this morning. All the time 
she filled bowls and vases with Sybil’s help, she sang snatches 
of Italian airs in a charming voice. Launcelot heard her as 
he went down the long passage, and smiled to himself. 

Miss Thorpe bade good-by very kindly to Dossie, and told 
her that she must often come and see her and Ivan, but Dossie 
made no audible reply to this. She gave a little si.gh of relief 
when she found herself in the phaeton again, and Launcelot 
tiirned the mare’s head in the direction of Overton Bridge. 


“Mr SONNETS FAIRE WIFE ELIZABETHS 


119 


“ I am afraid you do not appreciate my friends sufficiently, 
Dossie,^^ observed Launcelot, pretending to shake his head. 
‘‘You did not thank Miss Thorpe for her kind invitation.^^ 

“ I don^t want to go very often, returned Dossie, with 
simple truthfulness. “ Miss Thorpe is very kind, but I would 
rather stop with you and Aunt Della, and Launcelot said 
nothing more. 

Dossie did not cease for many a long week to fret for her 
father. Hers was a faithful nature, and all the kindness of 
her new relations could not at first make her happy ; but she 
no longer moped and pined to the detriment of her health, 
and after a time her grave little face brightened, and her eyes 
grew less sad and wistful. 

From the first moment she manifested a strong affection for 
her aunt Della, and indeed nothing could exceed Mrs. Chud- 
leigh^s motherly tenderness ; she had Dossie constantly with 
her, and watched over her health with maternal anxiety. 

After her aunt Della Dossie placed Miss Rossiter in her list 
of favorites, though she still regarded Launcelot as her chief 
friend, but the governesses bright genial nature, her childlike 
mirth and sense of fun, had a fascination for the child, who 
was rather precocious and old-fashioned in her ways. Beatrix 
and Geoffrey came last in her estimation, though she re- 
sponded to their advances with the grave gentleness that was 
natural to her ; but they were all very kind to her, and even 
Bernard, who was a general tease, would cease his jokes if 
Dossie seemed at all bewildered by them ; indeed, in spite of 
their disparaging remarks the whole family would have 
missed the quiet blue-eyed child who was always so ready to 
wait on everybody, and who never gave any one trouble 
The youngest boy, Fred, or Freckles as he was generally called, 
from the fkct that his fair skin was always liable to freckles, 
endorsed the general opinion that Dossie was a nice little 
girl. 

Freckles was a pleasant-looking boy, with rather melan- 
choly brown eyes, and an unusually gentle bearing, but woe 
be to the boy who was deceived by the mild suavity of 
Freckles^s manner or the languid indifference of his voice. 

Freckles would drawl out jokes that would convulse his 
brothers and sisters with laughter ; when people predicted the 
gentle melancholy lad would certainly go into a decline, 
Freckles would be planning some practical joke that would 
make Geoffrey or Bernard threaten dire vengeance on his 
luckless head. Even his mother hardly understood the boy. 

“ It must be a mistake, Launcelot, she would say with tears 
in her eyes, when an unusually bad report of the young 
scapegrace reached her ears ; “ dear Fred is so very quiet and 
well-behaved, he would never have incited those boys to such 
mischief.’^ 

“ Freckles has never been out of mischief, except when he 
has been asleep, since the day he was born,^^ returned Launce- 


120 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


lot, severely ; ‘‘as a baby he plagued his nurse to death, and 
now he is the torment of all his masters. Mischief is natural 
to him, I believe : he cannot help playing pranks any more 
than Jack could.” But though Launcelot held this view of 
Freckles^s depravity he was exceedingly fond of the boy, and 
Freckles, who adored his oldest brother, never attempted one 
of his practical jokes on him, — his, Launcelot^s, position of 
head of the family investing him with a certain dignity even 
in Freckles^s lawless eyes. 

It was hardly surprising then that Dossie, to whom boys 
were unknown animals and who had never had a boy friend 
of her own, was sadly puzzled by the lugubrious Fred. 

On the first evening, touched, and indeed instinctively 
drawn to him by the plaintive expression of the lad^s soft 
brown eyes, she had whispered to him, — 

“What are you thinking about? Why do you look so 
dreadfully unhappy? ' Has any one been scolding you?” 

“No,” returned Freckles, slowly, “but can you keep a 
secret?” 

“Yes — no, — at least I would rather not know, if it is any- 
thing very bad,” replied Dossie, shrinking back a little. 

“Oh, it won^t hurt you,” a little contemptuously; “but 
there, girls never can keep secrets. Sybil never could ; she 
always blabbed out everything to Miss* Kossiter ; that is why 
I cali her ‘ Tell-tale Tit,^ Tit for short you know. She spoilt a 
splendid thing of mine last holidays. 

“Oh, I wish you would tell me,” sighed Dossie, in rather a 
trembling voice. “ I don't like secrets much, but when I see 
people unhappy I always want to help them.” 

“ Very well, then ; you shall help me. You know that big 
cupboard in. Bee's room ; well, I owe her a grudge, and I am 
going to pay my lady out. I am going to hide behind all her 
dresses, and just before she turns the gas on, I mean to say, 
in a sepulchral tone, ‘ Ah, what dost thou, Beatrix,' — but what 
was to follow was never known, for Dossie turned so pale and 
looked so frightened at the bare idea of such a trick, and 
begged Freckles so earnestly not to do it, that he reluctantly 
renounced this novel vengeance, but he never afterwards con- 
fided his plans to Dossie. “Girls are no good,” he observed 
on more than one occasion in hers and Sybil's hearing. 

But he wasiyery kind to her after his fashion, and Dossie 
grew to understand him better. She never questioned him 
again on the meaning of his melancholy and abstracted looks, 
but now and then she electrified him by whispering in his ear 
when he looked unusually sad, “Please don't do it, Freckles, 
you had much better not,” a species of clairvoyance that 
made him speechless with amazement. 

Launcelot had got his way : the new picture was in full 
progress, and Miss Kossiter sat to him daily. 

She was always accompanied to the studio by Pauline, who 
was her brother's pupil, and painted landscapes very prettily, 


“Afr SONNE’S FAIRE WIFE ELIZABETH.’’ 


121 


and sometimes Mrs. Chudleigh would bring her work and 
join the young people, but her presence was never the 
slightest constraint or hindered the flow of their lively talk. 

These afternoons were very pleasant to Launcelot. His 
work always entranced him, and when he had a picture on 
hand it was difficult to lure him from his easel. The day 
seemed too short, and at such times any interruption was irk- 
some to him. 

But he did not care for solitude, and nothing pleased him 
better than for Mrs. Chudleigh or Pauline to sit beside him 
and take interest in his work. Bee seldom came, though he 
always welcomed her most heartily, but Bee was too active 
and managing to have many idle hours on her hand. She 
had no special taste for art, and she liked better to practise on 
the grand pianoforte in the big empty drawing-room, or to 
study German. 

Now and then, when the sitting was over, they would all 
assemble for flve o^ clock tea in the west window, as it was 
called, instead of adjourning to the drawing-room or morn- 
ing-room. These occasions were highly prized by Dossie, the 
little square tea-table round which they crowded looked so 
cosey and inviting. The children sat on the deep step that led 
to the bay, and took their tea in picnic fashion, while their 
elders laughed and chatted and discussed their little plans ; 
sometimes Launcelot would break off abruptly and go back 
to his painting, while the girls still lingered at the table. 

What a pretty picture it all made, he thought, and more 
than once it came into his head that he must paint that family 
group ; Madella and the girls, the two children with the dogs 
stretched at their feet. Miss Bossiter standing beside them, 
the carved cabinets and tables beyond, a soft background of 
green lawn with a dark cedar spreading its wide foliage, and 
SybiPs tame pigeons fluttering about the window-sill. 

At this time Launcelot passed hours daily in Miss Rossiter^s 

E resence, but he never once noticed an approach to sadness in 
er manner. Sometimes he would pretend to grumble at her 
prosaic cheerfulness. “Now Elizabeth, he would say, very 
gravely, “how am I to paint the pathetic expression that 
ought to be on your face when you will persist in looking so 
provokingly happy? Have I not read the poem over and 
over again to you, and yet you will not understand the 
duty that is required of you.^^ 

“Ohr^ she said, with a sort of frank impertinence, “it is 
‘Cusha, Cusha, Cusha,^ that I am calling, and one need not 
look sad over that ; it is — 

Come iippe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoct, 

Come uppe Jetty ; rise and follow 
Jetty to the milking-shed.’ ” 

“ No, no,^^ he returned, impatiently ; “ you have done with 
the milking-song for ever. Jetty and Whitefoot have long 
!• 11 


122 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


ago been choked by the murderous surf, you are no longer 
looking for them. You are startled to see the line of foam, 
the thunder of the mighty wave is in your ears, you are 
straining your eyes, and your infant is at your breast, and 
the other child has hidden his little face in your gown. What 
does it mean, — the noise, the breaking spray, the sullen roar? 
Ah, it is of the children you think, and of the distant hus- 
band, and of the death-wave 

Oh, your descriptions are too vivid,^^ she returned, with 
an involuntary shudder. “ I do not wish to think about such 
dreadful things.” 

Launcelot smiled. 

Never mind, we shall do very well, I dare say. I shall 
have to recall a certain expression that was pathetic enough 
for my purpose,” and here her color changed a little ; “ and 
there is one thing, there must have been a wind,— oh, yes, 
of course there must have been a wind, and it has loosened 
the hair under your kerchief, and some of it must trail over 
one shoulder.” 

“Very well,” she returned, good-humoredly, for she was 
anxious that he should not be disappointed with his beautiful 
picture, “ Pauline shall help me to arrange my wind-blown 
tresses to-morrow,” and then she gave herself a little shake 
as though she were weary of her long standing, and a few 
minutes afterwards he saw her cross the lawn with the two 
little girls, and it seemed to him as he watched her as though 
the grass could hardly feel those light, springy footsteps. 

Launcelot used to talk to her when he had an easy piece of 
work before him. She was very fresh and lively in conversa- 
tion, and often made speeches that were sparkling with 
naivete and wit, but he could never induce her to speak of 
her old life ; she only told him once that she had lived as 
companion with an old lady who died and who was very kind 
to her, but that she liked being with children best. 

“Do you know,” he said one day, very thoughtfully, when 
Pauline had left them alone for a few liiinutes, “that I have 
found out something about you that has greatly surprised me?” 

“ About me?” she asked ; but he could see tliat she was very 
much startled. 

“Yes, I have discovered that in spite of all your frankness 
you are a very reserved person, that no one can make you 
open your lips if you think proper to close them, and I confess 
that this surprises me a good deal ; it is an incongruity, so 
much frankness and yet such impenetrable reserve.” 

“ Oh, I am not naturally reserved,” she returned, with rather 
a constrained smile, “ but my life has been hard and has taught 
me many useful lessons. Is it not Solomon who tells us that 
there is a time to talk and a time to be silent^ ?” But he 
made no answer to this, for he was revolving in his mind the 
first part of her sentence. 

“No, you are not naturally reserved ; any one can see that,” 


“il/r SONNE'S FAIRE WIFE ELIZABETHS 


123 


and then Pauline came back bringing an account of some vis- 
itors Bee was entertaining in the drawing-room. 

Launcelot was dimly conscious of the fact that he took far 
too much pleasure in Miss Rossi ter’ s society ; he had been 
strangely interested in her from the first, but since the return 
of the family from Mentone he was aware that this interest 
had deepened. Her individuality and gayety seemed to per- 
vade the house, she was always so good-natured and pleasant, 
so ready to do kind things for every one, from tending Mrs. 
Chudleigh when she suffered from one of her bad sick head- 
aches, to nursing the kitchen-maid with a quinsy. Launcelot 
found her in the stable-yard once, binding up Neale’s cut fin- 
ger, and the children at the gardener’s cottage were devoted 
to her ever since she had nursed their baby brother in an attack 
of croup. 

No, there was no denying her goodness of heart ; and then 
how charming were her manners, so perfectly devoid of self- 
consciousness and coquetry ! She never gave herself the airs 
of a pretty woman, or seemed to expect admiration. He had 
watched her often, and he had never seen her brighten at the 
approach of any man, and yet few came to the Witchens with- 
out paying marked attention to the handsome governess. 

He had once hinted this to his step-mother, and she had 
answered quite placidly, — 

^‘My dear, you are perfectly right. Miss Rossi ter has no 
vanity. I wish Bee would take after her in that respect. Bee 
is far too conscious. Miss Rossiter does not care for gentlemen 
at all. I think their admiration bores her, she seems to enjoy 
ladies’ company best ; she is a very steady young person, and 
exceedingly well behaved, indeed, her tact is admirable. I 
often thought so at Mentone when all those silly fellows were 
pestering her with attention.” 

‘^Madella,” was all his reply to this, ‘‘I do not know 
whether you are exceedingly wise or exceedingly foolish, but 
if mischief comes it will be your doing.” 

Oh, Launce,” in a hurt voice, “ what can you mear— mis- 
chief ? Why, Geoffrey has never taken the least notice of her, 
I have told you so before, — he was far more attentive to Nora 
Hamblyn ; and as for Bear, why, he would never think of 
such a thing. Oh, I can trust my boys,” finished the simple 
woman. “ I am only thankful that the dear girls should have 
such a steady companion.” 

Launcelot was quite ready to endorse his step-mother’s 
opinion as to Miss Rossiter’s steadiness ; her tact often sur- 
prised him, and she never took advantage of the kindness 
and consideration shown her. She never forgot, or let others 
forget, that she was Sybil’s governess, and on all occasions she 
showed a pretty deference to Bee, who was apt to be a little 
exacting. 

Launcelot did not care to question his feelings too closely. 
He refused to acknowledge even to himself that he was in 


124 ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 

danger of falling in love with Miss Rossiter. He felt particu- 
larly happy just now, but then he was never otherwise than 
happy. He had never indulged in the discontented Byronic 
moods that are sometimes common to young men of genius. 
His temperament was equable, and not subject to hot and 
cold fits. He said to himself that he was delighted to have 
his womenfolk about him again ; that he had missed Madella 
and the girls, and that it was pleasant to have the old sociable 
evenings once more ; but he forbore to add that those evenings 
were strangely incomplete without Miss Rossiter’ s presence. 
She had been absent once, and he was surprised to find how 
much he had missed her, and how fiat the music sounded to 
him without the rich contralto voice that was one of her at- 
tractions. 

Launcelot was passionately fond of music, and could play 
and sing very well himself ; indeed, they were all musical, 
but no one could compete with Miss Rossiter. Strange to say, 
she generally sang pathetic old ballads, with a pathos and 
beauty of expression that was surprising in so lively a person. 

Once or twice the deep melodious voice had so moved 
Launcelot that he had left the room and strolled up and 
down the hall, wondering at the overpowering melancholy 
that had seized on him, and ready to declare himself moon- 
struck or bewitched, but he never let her know the extent of 
her power. But this was not all. As the spring crept on and 
budded into early summer, and the Witchens grew gay with 
garden-parties and impromptu dances, Launcelot became con- 
scious that a curious conflict was taking place within him, 
that some indefinable instinct that seemed like a presentiment 
was moving him to resistance against the growing fascination 
that Miss Rossiter exercised over him ; he was vaguely sensi- 
ble of this, and yet he could give no reason for these uneasy 
feelings. 

For the first time in his life he showed signs of a vacillating 
will, and his actions were contradictory and unequal, and yet 
no man could be more decided on emergencies ; nor had he 
ever been otherwise than straightforward, but he was at a loss 
to understand his own feelings, or what the subtle voice 
within him meant that seemed to warn him that any entangle- 
ment of this sort would only lead to unhappiness. 

Launcelot refrained from arguing the question honestly with 
himself; a singular cowardice that was foreign to his nature 
made him prefer to keep his feeling in abeyance, and to drift 
on pleasantly from day to day. So he never asked himself 
why he was not free to fall in love with Miss Rossiter if he 
chose to do so. No one would have a right to object because 
she happened to be his step-mother’s governess. Many a man 
better oorn, and far more wealthy, would be glad to secure 
such a prize. Would any one deny that she was a gentle- 
woman, that she was his sisters’ equal in good breeding? No, 
he had never vexed himself with this sort of question. It 


BEE^S SATURDAYS. 


125 


was simply a strange instinct for which he could not account, 
that made him unconsciously resist a growing passion for a 
woman who certainly fascinated him more than any woman 
he had ever known. 

Sometimes he wondered what she thought of him, but he 
could never answer this question satisfactorily to himself. 
She was always very friendly in her manners to him, but 
there was no shyness, no consciousness of the quiet looks that 
watched her day by day. 

“Huldah wonders how any one can be afraid of you,^' 
Pauline said to him once, as they were riding together. 
Launcelot kept a riding-horse for his sisters, and rode with 
them by turns. They were both very fair equestrians, but 
Bee’s beautiful figure showed to greater advantage, and she 
was always noticed in the Bow. 

“Oh, indeed?” observed Launcelot, dicking his mare’s 
glossy flank with his whip. 

“ Yes, she says you are so perfectly gentle that one could 
tell you anything*, — confide in you, she meant ; and I said 
‘ Yes, that is very perfectly true, for when we were naughty 
little girls and got into disgrace with our governess, Bee and 
I always got you to intercede for us, and then we were sure 
to be forgiven.’ ” 

“ And what did Miss Bossiter say to that, Paul, my dear?” 

“ Oh, she smiled, and said that she had never felt shy of 
you at all, and that she could quite understand that we should 
all take our troubles to you, and that we were happy to have 
so good a brother, and so we are,” finished Pauline, with an 
affectionate glance, but just then they reached a wider stretch 
of common, and Launcelot proposed a canter on the grass. 

“ If she were in any great trouble would she come to me, I 
wonder?” thought Launcelot, and this thought occupied him 
all through the remainder of the ride. 


CHAPTEB XVI. 


bee’s SATURDAYS. 

“ I have been accustomed to study men’s countenances, and I can read 
In thine honesty and resolution.”— JmriTioe. 

“ The man whom I call deserving the name is one whose thoughts and 
exertions are for others, rather tha.n for himself.”— Pet'en7 of the Peak. 

When the second week lu May arrived. Bee informed the 
assembled family one morning at the breakfast-table, with 
much solemnity, that their Saturdays were about to com- 
mence, and that their Mentone acquaintances. Miss Hamblyn 
and her brother, had promised to come on the opening one. 

“Nora is to stay with us, you know,” observed Bee, care- 


126 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


lessly addressiiig* her eldest brother, and we have sent a card 
to the Maxwells. Pauline seemed to wish it.’^ 

‘‘Oh, Bee, I thought you proposed it yourself,^^ responded 
Pauline, with heightened color. “ I only said Charlotte would 
feel neglected if we asked the Hamblyns and ignored them, 
when Dr. Maxwell was so attentive about your ankle, too.” 

“My dear, you appeared to wish it very much,” was the 
rejoinder, for Bee could say sharp little things sometimes. 
“You know I did not take a fancy to Miss Maxwell myself. 
She was so gauche and so badly dressed.” 

“ Pax, pax, my children,” observed Launcelot, who detected 
a retort hovering on Pauline^s lips ; for, like most warm- 
hearted people, she disliked hearing any fault found with her 
friends, and Bee could be merciless on small foibles. “ So the 
Saturdays are to begin as usual, with Geoffrey as master of the 
ceremonies?” 

“ Well, you know you never care for a fuss,” was the smooth 
answer, “and Geoff* enjoys it.” 

“Yes, Geotf is just the fellow for you ladies, — makes him- 
self pleasant and never looks too bored. There is a career 
before you, my boy ! Well, have your way. Bee, and let 
Pauline have hers. No division in the camp, mind. This is 
Liberty Hall, and every one^s friends are to be welcomed,” 
with a stress on the last word. 

“Thank you, Launce,” with a relieved air, from Bee; but 
Pauline only squeezed her brother’s hand as he passed with a 
force that made him smile. 

“ Poor little Paul ! I am afraid Bee provokes her some- 
times,” he said to himself, as he sauntered into his studio. 
“ They are rather different in their tastes. I will keep a sharp 
lookout on these Hamblyns and Maxwells ; confound that 
Mentone !” and then he unfolded his paper. 

The Saturdays were much appreciated by the Chudleighs’ 
friends, and were very different to the crowded and formal 
“ at homes” in which society at present delights. They were 
in reality weekly garden-parties, but a wet Saturday seldom 
kept people away. The girls and Geolfrey managed every- 
thing, though their mother was nominal hostess. From the 
first Launcelot gave them to understand that he was by no 
means bound to present himself on these occasions ; and 
though when he was at home the first gleam of moving 
draperies between the trees always lured him to the spot, 
where he invariably remained until the last visitor had de- 
parted, he took no leading part in the proceedings, and always 
referred any questions to Bee or Geoffrey. 

It was unanimously voted by the neighborhood that the 
Chudleighs perfectly understood this sort of thing, and that 
these weekly receptions were the pleasantest affairs possible. 

Strangers and casual acquaintances received their invita- 
tion cards with all due formality, and were only made aware 
of the fact that Mrs. Chudleigh would be “at home” from 


BEE^S SATURDAYS, 


127 


four to seven on such and such a date ; but to their intimate 
friends Bee would write charming little notes. “Our Satur- 
days will commence next week, and we hope to see you and 
your sisters as often during the summer as you care to give us 
that pleasure. Of course, we shall be glad to see any friend 
who may be staying with you. We shall be able to manage 
three sets of tennis, so of course you will bring your rackets, 
and so on. And the recipient of one of these notes considered 
him or herself to be made free of the Witchens until the 
middle of August. 

There was always a goodly sprinkling of gentlemen on the 
Saturdays. Geoffrey knew several rising young barristers, 
and his and Bernardos Oxford friends were available in the 
long vacation. Launcelot^s club and artist acquaintances 
often put in an appearance, for the Witchens was considered 
a very pleasant house. Mrs. Chudleigh was still greatly ad- 
mired, and her soft graciousness made her a perfect hostess ; 
while Bee^s pretty face and sprightly manners, and Pauline^s 
gentleness and good sense, made them much sought after by 
their friends, and Geoffrey^s cleverness and gentlemanly bear- 
ing always made their mark, though neither he nor Bernard 
was as popular as their elder brother. 

“ The girls won^t look at us when old Launce makes his ap- 
pearance,^^ Bernard used to say, in an injured tone. “ I do 
not know why they find him so attractive, for he is not a bit 
handsome, and does not fall in love with any of them. It is 
hard lines on us, Geoff. But Geoffrey did not seem to see it ; 
he was much too satisfied with his own capabilities. 

Certainly on a hot, glowing July afternoon nothing could 
be pleasanter than the leafy walk leading to the rosiery and 
terrace, and the cool shady seats under the big elms on the 
lawn. There were gay little seats under covering, and nooks 
and corners where flirtations could be carried on. Indeed, 
there was a low bench, under a rose-covered arch, that the 
Chudleigh girls had christened the Lovers^ Bower, because 
more than one happy match had been finally cemented there. 
It must be owned chaperones found their task of watching 
over their young charges as difficult as the perplexed hen who 
sees her web-footed brood take to the farmyard pond. For, 
alas! her disconsolate duckings are without avail, as the 
downy rebels swim away from their foster-parent. 

Elderly ladies are not fond of exertion, especially on a hot 
afternoon in the dog-days ; and a seat in the shade where 
they can watch the tennis, or a corner in the cool dining-room, 
where ices and claret-cup and big juicy strawberries were 
always to be procured, seemed far more desirable than pacing 
the shrubberies in search of some runaway daughter, who 
was, perhaps, at that moment enduring the tropical heat of 
the hot-houses, or visiting the puppies in the stable-yard or 
the baby at the gardener^ s house, or perhaps had even strayed 
into the studio, — anywhere, to be out of reach of the maternal 


128 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


eyes. as one aggrieved matron complained, “you 

might as well hunt for a needle in a hay-loft as try and find 
any one at the Witchens.^^ 

“I suppose it is for Miss Julia you are looking,” observed 
Bernard, sympathetically, as he overheard this little speech. 
“ Let me go and find her for you, Mrs. Merriman. I think I 
saw her with Debenham on the terrace,” but the young scape- 
grace did not add that that was half an hour ago, and that at 
that moment they were in the west window of the studio ; of 
course they were not on the terrace, and of course poor Mrs. 
Merriman had to chafe inwardly for the next hour. 

“ Is it late, — do you mean that the carriage is really here, 
mamma?” observes Julia innocently, when she rejoins her 
aggrieved mother. “ Captain Debenham has been taking me 
all through the hot-houses, — the ferns and flowers are so 
delicious !” 

“ Awfully pretty, I assure you. I have had quite a grand 
time, Mrs. Merriman. Miss Julia knows a lot about those sort 
of things ; she beats me hollow there.” Captain Debenham 
steals a look at his pretty companion as he speaks, but Mrs. 
Merriman is not so easily pacified ; she cast rather a withering 
glance at the handsome young officer, as she asks Geoflfrey to 
see her to her carriage. Poor Mrs. Merriman ! she has reason 
to rue these Saturdays ; for the next year Julia married Cap- 
tain Debenham, and crossed the ocean with him as cheerfully 
as the hen^s youngest duckling crossed the pond. “ Chuck, 
chuck,” cries the poor little brown hen. 

“Julia, Captain Debenham has nothing but his pay. You 
will be a miserable woman if you marry him ;” but Mrs. 
Merriman might as well have held her peace. What girl 
cares about prospective poverty when she wants to marry the 
man she loves! Of course they had difficulties— plenty of 
children— troubles of all kind ; but it may be doubted whether 
either of them ever regretted Mrs. Chudleigh^s Saturdays. 

After all, very little satisfies young people, — plenty of space, 
sunshine, a smooth tennis ground, and a liberal intermixing 
of the sexes, will make most healthy young folks happy. 

The Chudleighs made no special effort to entertain tlu ir 
friends; they introduced the pleasantest young men they 
could find to the nicest girls, without keeping them for them- 
selves, for bven Bee would be as unselfish as Pauline in that 
respect. Geoffrey made up the tennis sets, and there were 
bowls for any one who cared for that antiquated game, but 
beyond this they took no further trouble. 

Every one knew tea and coffee and claret-cup and most 
delicious fruits were always to be had in the big dining-room ; 
the morning-room and the drawing-room were also pleasant 
resorts for quiet conversation, and now and then, out not 
always, the studio was open. As a rule, Launcelot preferred 
only admitting one or two favorites, and no one knew how 
Captain Debenham had contrived to smuggle Miss Merriman 


BEE^S SATURDAYS, 


129 


Into the west window. But what Bee loved above all things 
was to plan a delicious surprise for her friends ; more than 
once during the season the Wimberley band had been stationed 
in the glass ante-room leading to the studio, and the visitors’ 
ears had been regaled with a choice programme of operatic 
music. 

On such occasions, Bee and Pauline would drop hintn to a 
favored few that a cold collation would be served at (iight, 
and that there would be an impromptu dance in the hall, 
which was very suitable to the purpose. Sometimes these 
hints came beforehand, in the shape of notes : 

“ We have ordered the Wimberley band for next Saturday, 
and hope to get up a little dance after supper, so please come 
prepared. We shall dance from nine to eleven.” 

” Of course, we shall have the band for the first Saturday,” 
said Bee, in a business-like tone, following Launcelot into his 
studio that morning. 

“ Very well, my dear.” 

“You see we have so many new people coming. Geotfrey is 
going to ask lots of men. He declares he shall put from four 
to eleven on the card mother sends to his friends. He has 
actually written in the corner of several cards, ‘ Tennis at 
four ; feed at eight ; dancing nine to eleven.’ It is so absurd 
of him, but he declares all his friends will understand.” 

“ Some of them will be very much obliged to Geoffrey for 
the hint. No doubt they will arrive just in time for the feed.” 

“Oh, no, Launce ; that would be too shabby. Of course, we 
mean people like the Hayters and Pierrepoints to go as usual, 
at seven. I have told Fenwick they are not to begin to lay 
the table until a quarter-past. We shall have cleared away 
all the people we don’t want by that time.” 

“Well, my dear, you and Geoffrey can do as you think best. 
Make your selection and be happy ; only don’t ofiend people.” 

“Oh, we shall be very careful,” returned the young diplo- 
matist. “ We only want our intimate friends to remain. We 
can’t make the thing too big ; a garden-party can be as large 
as you like, but an impromptu dance is quite another tlung, 
and we do not want more than thirty to sit down.” 

“I should think Fenwick would be content with a leos 
number. You must recollect Madella does not like the ser- 
vants to be overworked, and she has the good old-fashioned 
notions about Sunday.” 

“Oh, of course, we all know mother’s opinions on that 
point,” returned Bee, impatiently ; “ that is why we stop 
dancing at eleven, — three hours will be ample for Fenwick 
and Orson to clear away ; and you need not trouble about 
Fenwick, Lance, for he enjoys the bustle as much as we do.” 

“ I am glad to hear it ; but. Bee, one word before you go, — 
have you asked the Maxwells to remain ?” 

“ Well, no, it would not do the first time ; they have never 
even called here.” 

% 


130 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


“Neither have the Harablyns, my dear, but I suppose Mr. 
Hamblyn is to stay for the dance. 

“ Yes ; but, Launce, Nora is to remain the week, so of course 
her brother would not go away ; they would think it so 
strange. 

“ Well, never mind that ; let Geoffrey write a little note to 
Di . Maxwell, — he tells me he is a nice fellow, — and inform him 
of the programme. 

“Very well,” but Bee did not seem pleased. “That will 
make thirty-two, including ourselves.” 

“ And Miss Rossiter?” 

“ Oh, of course Miss Rossiter.” 

“You don’t want me to write to any men, I hope . ^ 

“Not this time, thank you ; we don’t want to overdo things.” 

“ All right ; what pleases you pleases me. I did try to get 
Thorpe, but he is going down to the Isle of Wight. He has 
half promised to look in on one of our Saturdays.” 

“Of course we are always very glad to see any of your 
friends, Launce dear,” observed Bee, with the air of a princess, 
“ but mother and I think that it would be better to ask Mr. 
Thorpe to dinner first. You see his position is a little peculiar, 
but we all want to know him,” she added heartily, as her 
brother seemed rather disturbed at this remark. 

“ I think we all ought to try and cheer him up, poor fellow, 
for I am afraid he has been hardly used,” and then he made 
up his mind that on the very first opportunity he would ask 
Mr. Thorpe to dinner. 

“I shall want to show him that picture ; it will certainly 
be my best,” he thought, when Bee at last left him to his 
own refiections. 

Launcelot worked steadily at his picture the following 
Saturday afternoon, but every now and then he stole a glance 
from the west window. He saw Bernard cross the lawn in 
his fiannels, bent on tennis ; then Bee in her white gown and 
pretty shady hat, accompanied by Geoflrey ; then he heard 
heavy footsteps in the ante-room, and was soon made aware 
that the band had arrived, and then he began leisurely putting 
away his things. 

But he did not hurry himself, though gay groups of young 
people were crossing and recrossing the wide lawn, and al- 
ready the tennis set were formed and in full play. For a 
little while it pleased him to reconnoitre the scene from the 
distance. 

“That is Miss Hamblyn, I suppose,” he said to himself, as 
a tall girl in black passed at that moment with Bee ; a young 
man with a dark moustache was escorting them, and the 
three seemed very happy. 

A minute afterwards Pauline appeared, with a very quiet- 
looking young lady ; this young lady was somewhat nigh- 
shouldered and used eye-glasses. They were followed by Mrs. 
Chudleigh, who was as usual perfectly dressed and moved 


BEE^S SATURDAYS, 


131 


with the air of a duchess ; she was holding Dossiers hand, and 
talking with her accustomed graciousness to a grave-looking 
young man who walked beside her. 

“ I suppose that is Dr. Maxwell, thought Launcelot, and 
he stepped out through the window, taking care to lower the 
sash when he reached the other side, for the studio, with its 
unfinished picture, was not on view this afternoon. 

Dossie dropped her aunt^s hand, and ran joyously to meet 
him. As Launcelot looked at her, he wondered what Jack 
would have said at the transformation. 

The shabby child in the little gray cloak and hood had 
changed into a daintily-dressed little lady. Dossiers pretty 
white frock, with its lace and embroidery, and tastefully- 
trimmed hat, just suited her. Her fair hair was smooth and 
shining ; a little pink color tinged her pale cheeks. Oh, 
I am so glad you have come she said, clinging to him affec- 
tionately. “ It is all so gay and beautiful,— only we wanted 
you.^^ 

“ We always want him, do we not, Dossie observed Mrs. 
Chudleigh, who had followed the child and overheard this. 
“ Dr. Maxwell, I must introduce you to my eldest son.^^ And 
then the two men shook hands. 

Dr. Maxwell was about Launcelot^s age. He was not par- 
ticularly good-looking ; he was dark complexioned, and his 
features were marked and irregular, but he had a pleasant 
manner and seemed gentlemanly and agreeable. 

Launcelot was decidedly prepossessed in his favor ; he liked 
his thoughtful, intelligent expression. But before they had 
exchanged many sentences together Pauline and her compan- 
ion joined them. 

“This is Miss Maxwell, Launce,^^ she said, touching her 
brother on the arm to attract his attention. Launcelot looked 
up and saw the young lady with the eye-glasses. 

Miss Maxwell was very like her brother ; they had both 
the same high cheek-bones and dark complexion. Bee was 
right ; she was certainly a plain girl, but she looked very ani- 
mated and had a bright smile, and seemed good-natured and 
sensible. 

She accosted Launcelot very frankly as he shook hands 
with her. 

“ I have heard a good deal about your beautiful studio, Mr. 
Chu Heigh. I was just asking your sister if you ever admitted 
strangers. 

“ Oh, yes ; sometimes. My friends are often invited to five 
o^clock tea when I have a picture on view. I am not throw- 
ing it open this afternoon, as there is nothing of interest to 
exhibit; but if you care to see it— just the room, I mean— 
you are welcome to do so.^^ 

“Oh, thank you; how very kind And Miss Maxwell 
looked much pleased ; and then Launcelot opened the win- 
dow again, and they all followed him in. 


132 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


A screen had been drawn before the unfinished picture, for 
Launcelot had already decided that no outsider but his friend 
Mr. Thorpe should be invited to inspect it ; so all Pauline^s 
coaxing to allow them one peep was utterly unavailing. 

“ I told you there would be nothing to interest you,” he ob- 
served to Miss Maxwell, who was looking about her with 
great interest, but she denied this with energy. 

‘‘I think it all interesting,” she returned, with much vi- 
vacity. “ It is a lovely room, is it not, Headley ? and so beau- 
tifully furnished. Is this where you work, and are all those 
sketches yours?” and then Launcelot good-naturedly opened 
one of his portfolios. 

^‘If you could only have seen his last picture,” observed 
Pauline, regretfully ; “ but it is sold : the subject was taken 
from those words of Kingsley, ‘For men must work, and 
women must weep.^ I think it was the best he ever painted. 
Mother was so fond of it, she could not bear parting with it.” 

Launcelot looked up quickly. “Was that true, Madella? 
had you really a fancy for it? Why did not some one tell me ?” 
in rather a vexed voice. “ Of course, I would not have sold 
it.” 


“ My dear Launce,” and Mrs. Chudleigh blushed like a girl, 
“ what extravagant generosity ! Do you think I would have 
let you lose five hundred pounds just to gratify my whim ? 
Of course it was a beautiful picture ; the face of that fisher- 
man^ s wife was so pafhetic. Don^t you remember, Pauline, 
how we all admired that figure, with the sunset shining behind 
it?” 


“ Yes, mother ; and we all said it was LaunceloPs best pic- 
ture. I thought Colonel Evans showed his taste in buying it.” 

“But he would not have had it, if you had only told me 
this before,” and a cloud crossed Launcelot^s face. “ I was not 
in need of the money, and it might have been hanging in 
Madella’s morning-room at the present moment.” 

“ My dear boy,” returned Mrs. Chudleigh, in her soft, cooing 
voice, and then she turned to Dr. Maxwell with a smile. “I 
am afraid you will think me a spoilt woman ; I hardly dare 
express a wish for fear my son should gratify it,” and she 
looked very happy as she made this little speech. 

“ Mr. Chudleigh is a fortunate man ; most of us are debarred 
from this sortof luxury,” returned Dr. Maxwell, gravely. “ He 
speaks of five hundred pounds as lightly as some of us would 
speak of five hundred pence.” 

“Not at all,” was the amused answer. “ I own it is a very 
useful sum ; it came in handy for the Mentone expenses, eh, 
Pauline? By the bye. Dr. Maxwell, there was a question I 
meant to ask you : my sister tells me you have taken the 
Bridge House, at Biversleigh. I wonder if you have come 
across a friend of mine, who is your near neighbor, Mr. 
Thorpe?” 

“ Thorpe, —no— at least, he is not on my list of patients, 


BEE^S SATURDAYS 


IBS 


and I have had no time yet to make anj unprofessional 
acquaintances. A friend of yours, you say 

“Yes ; he lives about a stone^s throw from Bridge House, at 
No. 8 Priory Road ; his sister lives with him ; he is the editor 
of the ‘ Imperial Review,^ and is a thoroughly nice fellow. His 
sister is nice, too, only strong-minded ; she belongs to some sort 
of charity organization society, and does an immense deal of 
gcod.^^ 

“ Thorpe, — no, I have never met him.’^ 

“ I wish you would call upon him. He is a new-comer, too: 
he used to live at Sutton. Unfortunate domestic circum- 
stances have made him somewhat of a recluse, but I want to 
rouse him up a bit.'^ Then Dr. Maxwell said at once that he 
would call, and as Launcelot took him to another part of the 
room to show him some antique pottery, they talked together 
in a low tone. 

Mrs. Chudleigh had seen some fresh guests enter the garden, 
so she hastened back to her duties and took Dossie with her, 
and the two girls were left standing by the portfolio. 

Miss Maxwell looked at the sketches a little absently. 

“ Did you see Hedley^s face,^^ she said at last rather abruptly, 
“ when your brother spoke about keeping that picture for 
your mother ? He looked quite touched, and yet I could see 
he was pained too. Your brother is very generous, but I 
think Hedley would be generous too if he could afford to 
be, — he always feels it so hard to be too poor to give us the 
things we want.^^ 

“But you are not really poor, Charlotte for the girls 
had grown very intimate during those three weeks of unre- 
strained intercourse, and already called each other by their 
Christian names, after the fashion of girls. “Bee said how 
nice your house was when we called ; it all looked so com- 
fortable.^^ 

“We are certainly not rich,^^ returned Miss Maxwell, with 
the sturdy honesty that was her distinguishing trait. “You 
must not judge by the relics of past grandeur ; you admired 
our old oak furniture, I remember. Hedley is heavily 
burthened for so young a man. He has been just able to buy 
this partnership, but for some years his income will be very 
small ; he has to make his way, and he has four women on 
his hands. It does seem so hard, for, of course, at his age 
men would be thinking of settling down, — getting married 1 
mean ; but of course, as Hedley says, there is no possibility of 
that now.^^ 

“I hope it is not a great disappointment,^^ replied Pauline, 
rather vaguely, and not knowing exactly what she was ex- 
pected to say. 

“Oh, there was no special lady in the case,^^ returned 
Charlotte, laughingly; “at least, if there were, Hedley has 
been very close about it ; only, don^t you see, most men pre- 
fer havinja: a wife to living unmarried, and it does seem such 

12 


134 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


a pity that we should all be burthening him in this way. If 
I could only help him ; but how could they manage at home 
without me?^^ 

“ I am sure you help him enough as it is,” answered Pauline, 
eagerly. “I cannot make out how you find time for all you 
do, the housekeeping and book-keeping, and all that reading 
aloud.” 

“ Oh, I like to be busy,” was the cheerful retort ; “ it makes 
me miserable to be idle. Sometimes when Sophy and Caro- 
line send me a long list of commissions I get a little over- 
whelmed, but that is not often. If one cannot be ornamental, 
one may at least be useful,” finished Charlotte, contentedly, 
“ and I am vain enough to think that neither mother nor 
Hedley could spare me ;” and at this moment the two gentle- 
men rejoined them, and the conversation became more 
general. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“ONIiY sybil’s governess.” 

“ His face was of that doubtfiil kind, 

That wins the eye but not the mind.” 

Scott. 

** My thoughts are my own.”— ^non. 

When Launcelot had done the honors of the studio thor- 
oughly, and had exhibited his Roman and Etruscan curiosi- 
ties, in which his visitors took an intelligent interest, he 
suggested that they should join the other guests on the lawn. 

Yes, indeed. I think that we have taken up far too much 
of your valuable time already,” returned Miss Maxwell in her 
straightforward way, ** but you have given us a great deal of 
pleasure.” 

‘‘Then I am already repaid,” was the courteous answer 
and at this moment they encountered the same little group 
that had passed the window some time ago. Bee gave an 
offended toss of her head when she saw her brother. 

“ Here you are at last, Launcelot ; every one has been in- 
quiring after you. Where have you been all this time? I 
have been wanting to introduce you to my friend Miss 
Hamblyn.” 

“ I do not think that we require an introduction,” returned 
that young lady graciously, and her bright eyes took quiet 
stock of the slim, young-looking man before her, — the rich, 
eccentric Launcelot Chudleigh, of whom she had heard so 
much, — the master of this beautiful house. Why, he was 
years older than his brother Geoffrey, and yet he looked quite 
boyish and insignificant ; and Miss Hamblyn, who wslh a 


^^ONLY SYBIL'S GOVERNESS." 


1S6 


very dignified person, felt decidedly disappointed, for she 
liked tall, fine-looking men. 

I have heard a great deal about Miss Hamblyn,^^ returned 
Launcelot, with polite sincerity. ‘‘This is your brother, I 
suppose?” turning to a singularly handsome young man, who 
was holding Bee^s sunshade. Probably there was some ad- 
mixture of foreign blood in the Hamblyn family, for Oscar 
had the olive complexion and dark liquid eyes that belong 
to the south. As Launcelot noticed the black silky mous- 
tache and faultless attire he uttered an inward groan. “ He 
ought to be labelled ‘ Dangerous,^ ” he muttered. “ What was 
Madella thinking about, allowing such a good-looking fellow 
to dance attendance on Bee ?” 

Perfectly unconscious of this criticism, Mr. Hamblyn ad- 
dressed his host with the easy, well-bred manners of a man 
of the world. 

‘*It is really very good of you to allow us to come in this 
Informal way, Mr. Chudleigh. We saw a great deal of your 
mother and sisters at Mentone. That is the best of life 
abroad, one gets to know people so intimately. Why, a 
whole season in town would not have made us so well ac- 
quainted with each other.” Mr. Hamblyn glanced at Bee as 
he spoke, and Launcelot was vexed to see how this little 
remark, so carelessly uttered, seemed to heighten her color. 

“I don^t believe people ever know each other in society,” 
he returned, rather more dogmatically than usual ; “ one only 
skims over the surface somehow.” 

‘‘Ah, you are a philosopher,” observed Miss Hamblyn, in 
her smooth, flexible voice ; and then was it by a dexterous 
little movement on her part the group broke up, and Launce- 
lot found himself pacing the shrubberies with Miss Hamblyn 
beside him, while Bee and her cavalier slowly followed them. 
Pauline and the Maxwells had disappeared, and later on he 
saw them in the distance with Miss Bossiter. 

Strange to say, Launcelot felt a little impatience in his posi- 
tion. He was not in the mood for strangers, and he found the 
society of this self-possessed and talkative young lady rather 
irksome than otherwise. 

For once he was inclined to be captious and fault-finding. 
He allowed that Miss Hamblyn was a striking-looking girl, 
that she had a decided claim to good looks ; she had a fine 
complexion, good features, though a little prononc6; a very 
graceful figure and ladylike carriage; she dressed well, 
walked well, and was fluent and easy in speech. Neverthe- 
less, she bored him ; and yet he could not find out the reason. 

“ She is very earthly,” he thought; but then many charm- 
ing women are earthly. Miss Rossiter was earthly, or what- 
ever he meant by that vague expression. “She is too decided 
and opinionative for her age,” he went on, but certainly Miss 
Maxwell was quite as decided, and he had not been bored by 
her. “ She is cold and self-satisfied, she thinks such an aw.^ul 


m 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


lot of herself, finished this very churlish young man. “ She 
expects me to pay her attention and that sort of thing, but 
then I never come up to people^s expectations.^^ But not- 
withstanding this undercurrent of opposition, he made him- 
self so agreeable that Miss Hamblyn revoked her previous 
opinion, 

‘‘Mr. Chudleigh was quite out of the common; he was 
really very interesting-looking ; there was something artistic 
about him.” Yes, she liked him very much, as she assured 
Bee afterwards. 

“Oh, every one likes Launce,” returned Bee, who had not 
a doubt upon this subject. “ Half the girls are in love with 
him, only he never gives them any encouragement. He 
thinks flirting nonsense.” 

“He is perfectly right. I respect him for that,” replied 
Miss Hamblyn, seriously ; and she meant what she said. 
Both she and her brother were adepts in the art ; but nothing 
would have displeased her more than any attempt on Launce- 
lot’s part to fiirt with her. The change in their circumstances 
made her anxious to settle, and she felt all such frivolities 
were out of the question now, and that she must take more 
serious views of life. 

“And I should leave it off too, if I were you, Oscar,” she 
said rather gravely that very night, as they stood and watched 
Launcelot and Bee waltzing together. “ It is not wise to have 
two strings to your bow, at least.” 

“ Perhaps you’ll be good enough to mind your own business 
for once, Nora,” he had returned rather sulkily ; for Oscar had 
a temper, and the Hamblyns were not always civil to each 
other. But his sister did not seem to mind this rough answer ; 
she only laughed and patted his shoulder. 

“Poor boy, is he so badly hit?” she said. “Well, she is 
very pretty, and I can’t find fault with your taste.” 

“Pshaw!” he muttered ungraciously, and then he pulled 
his moustache rather gloomily as his eyes followed the slight, 
girlish figure. When they had finished the dance he hurried 
up to her. 

“The next is ours; have you forgotten?” he said, looking 
rather too Intently at her pretty, flushed face ; bTit Beo 
dropped her eyelids and answered demurely, “Oh, no, I 
have not forgotten, but I am a little tired, I think. Launce 
waltzes deliciously — but I shall soon be rested,” and she 
made no objection when Mr. Hamblyn proposed a seat in 
the cool, dimly-lighted drawing-room ; certainly Oscar Ham- 
blyn was an adept in the dangerous art. 

Launcelot was not able to sustain an unbroken conversation 
with Miss Hamblyn ; every few minutes he had to stop and 
speak to people, and to answer all sorts of inquiries He 
apologized at last. 

“ This is very stupid for you,” he said, in his pleasant way ; 
'‘ you see all these good folk are my guests, and I have not 


^^ONLY SYBIL'S GOVERNESS.^' 


137 


spoken to them yet. I am afraid I must leave you and do the 
civil. Where is Geoffrey ? Oh, I see he is organizing another 
set for tennis ; you do not play tennis, I suppose?” looking 
down at her black dress. ‘‘ Will you sit here in the shade and 
watch them, — and — oh, there goes Oliver ; I must introduce 
him to you : Oliver Grayling, a friend of mine ; capital fellow, 
immensely rich, — nothing on earth to do with his money,” 
and here Launcelot dived dexterously between the tennis- 
players and spectators, and tapped Mr. Grayling smartly on 
the shoulder. 

Miss Hamblyn received him graciously ; it was her rOle to 
be gracious. “It is a mistake to snub people,” as she said, 
but in her heart she would rather have retained Launcelot. 
Mr. Grayling might be rich, — why on earth had Launcelot 
mentioned that little fact? — but he was bald, rather elderly- 
looking, forty at least, and wore spectacles, and more nervous 
than amusing. Nevertheless Miss Hamblyn kindly took him 
in hand, and made the best of him ; for she also was a phil- 
osopher, and had a vast amount of prudence and foresight for 
a girl of two-and-twenty. 

Launcelot walked away very fast when he had regained his 
freedom. 

“ I must confess I was bored,” he said to himself, with some 
surprise at the novelty of the sensation ; and then his eyes 
brightened and his pace quickened, for there was Miss Bossiter 
in her yellow gown, — was it yellow, though, or only pale 
golden brown ? — ^hurrying on before him in the direction of 
the terrace. 

“Why so fast?” he called out; and then she stopped and 
waited for him to come up with her. 

“Well, what is the matter?” he asked quietly, for he saw 
she looked hot and disturbed, and did not smile at him in her 
old way. 

“Oh, I was only looking for my children,” she returned, 
knitting her brows as though she were vexed. “ I have lost 
them, and it is all that tiresome Mr. Hamblyn^s fault. I 
wanted Dossie to have some tea,— Mrs. Ohudleigh says she 
looks tired, — and Mr. Hamblyn would detain me, and now 
they are out of sight.” 

“ I think Hamblyn was with Bee ; I saw him with her just 
now.” 

“Oh, he has been with her most of the afternoon, but he 
has been inflicting his company on me for all that. I am 
sure I wish Beatrix would keep him to herself ; he is dread- 
fully stupid.” 

“ Miss Bossiter, I am afraid— yes, I really am afraid— that 
you are just a little bit cross.” 

“So I am;” but she laughed now. “I wanted to And 
Dossie so badly ; and I can^t bear Mr. Hamblyn.” 

“ You— can^t— bear— Adonis — ” with a pause between each 

word. 


12 * 


138 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


“Oh, I donH like Adonises,^^ was the pettish answer. “1 
don^t care a bit about handsome men ; they only admire 
themselves : at least, if they admire you, they expect you to 
do it in return. Of course he is good-looking, but he knows 
it, and trades upon his knowledge. I believe I hate him be- 
cause he paid so much attention to Beatrix at Mentone. 

“Miss Rossiter,^^ still more solemnly, “do you know you 
are letting the cat out of the bag to Beatrixes brother 

“ Oh, that is nonsense but she looked a little ashamed of 
herself. “Of course, you know there were plenty of flirta- 
tions going on.^^ 

“ I am sorry to hear it,^^ he returned, so gravely that Miss 
Rossiter^s manner changed at once, and she looked quite 
sorry for her thoughtless speech. 

“ I wish I could learn to hold my tongue,^^ she said, peni- 
tently. “ I always ^eak without thinking. It is because I 
am so sure that Mr. Hamblyn is a flirt that I dislike him so ; 
why, he would pay any girl compliments by the score if she 
would let him, but Bee is so innocent that she will believe 
him.^^ 

“ And yet she is a thorough little woman of the world, and 
tolerably sharp, too ; I have seen her send men about their 
business when they did not please her.^^ 

“Yes, but if Mr. Hamblyn does please her?” 

“ Oh, I see what you mean ; it is kind and friendly of you 
to put us on our guard. I did not want to misjudge any one, 
but I shall keep a strict watch over the young man. I don^t 
mind telling you, in confidence, that I am not prepossessed 
in his favor. I am far better pleased with Pauline^s new 
friends.” 

“ Dr. Maxwell and his sister? oh, yes, they are thoroughly 
nice ; I like them so much. Dr. Maxwell is a most superior 
man, and yet he seems to think so little of himself ; ana Miss 
Maxwell is clever too.” 

They had reached the terrace, but there were no children 
there ; so Miss Rossiter said she must return to the house, and 
they sauntered back slowly, meeting stray couples on their 
w^ay. To Launcelot this was the pleasantest part of the after* 
noon. His companion suited him exactly. Her petulant little 
speeches amused him ; she was so frank and easy in her man- 
ners, so willing to talk or to be silent, so artlessly communica- 
tive, that Launcelot was sorry when the short walk was 
accomplished and she left him at the hall-door. 

But they had not passed unobserved. Mr. Hamblyn had just 
crossed the lawn to speak to his sister as the two emerged from 
the shrubbery. 

“ Who is that tall woman in the yellow gown walking with 
Chudleigh?” asked Mr. Grayling, who was short-sighted; he 
still kept his place beside Miss Hamblyn, but it must be 
confessed that the young lady felt a trifle bored. 

“ Oh, that is only the governess, Miss Rossiter,” she returned, 


ONLY SYBIL’S GOVERNESS.” 


139 


carelessly ; and then in an undertone to her brother, How 
very strange ! I must say I wonder at Mr. Chudleigh.'^ 

“ She is very handsome,^’ went on Mr. Grayling, in his fussy 
way. I was sure I had seen her before, but I could not 
remember her name ; she looked quite like a picture in that 
queer-colored gown, and with that wonderful hair, — a very 
uncommon type of beauty. 

“ I do not admire Miss Rossiter,^^ returned Miss Hamblyn, 
coldly. “ I never cared for red hair.’^ 

“ Come now, that is too bad, Nora,’^ observed her brother, 
with a laugh. “ Miss Rossi ter^s hair is a ruddy brown ; no one 
with eyes in his head would call it anything but beautiful. 

“ Nevertheless, it is not to my taste, she replied, with quiet 
pertinacity, “ and I think the gown hideous. Mamma would 
never have allowed a governess of ours to make herself so 
conspicuous, and I must say I wonder at Mrs. Chudleigh,^^ 
but Mr. Hamblyn merely laughed again, and shrugged his 
shoulders, as he crossed the lawn. Women always under- 
valued each other, he thought, but for his part he endorsed 
Mr. Grayling^s opinion, — he thought Miss Rossi ter a superb 
creature ; perhaps he admired her all the more that she had 
repulsed his little attentions and laughed at his compliments. 

“ It is easier to get on with the other one,^^ he said to himself, 
as he made his way to Bee, who received him with a smile 
and a blush. 

The afternoon had been quite a success, and there had not 
been a single hitch in the arrangements ; the carriages had 
come up at the right time, and the departing guests had ex- 
pressed themselves much pleased with the entertainments. 
Only a few tennis-players and a group or two :if young people 
were left on the wide lawn. 

When the last carriage had driven otF, Bee summoned the 
girls up-stairs to smarten themselves for the evening. They 
all wore cool summer dresses, and with the addition of fresh 
gloves, and a few flowers, they looked as nice as possible. 
Most of the young men retired to the billiard-room, and Fen- 
wick and his helpers were exceedingly busy in the dining- 
room. 

When Bee went to Miss Hamblyn^s room, with some white 
stephanotis that she had picked for her, she found her already 
dressed. 

“Oh, Nora, you ought not to have changed your dress, she 
said, a little reproachfully, for Miss Hamblyn wore a charm- 
ing demi- toilette of soft black gauze, trimmed with jet lace ; 
“ it is quite against our rule.^^ 

“ I could not know that, my dear, could returned her 
friend with a smile, though she was perfectly aware of the fact. 
“ But nothing can be nicer than your white gown. Are those 
flowers for me ? How lovely and how good of you to bring 
them 

“ Oh, we provide flowers for all the girls, returned Bee, in 


140 


ONLV THE GOVERNESS. 


an off-hand manner, for she was a little provoked at the stud- 
ied elegance of her friend’s attire, which would throw them 
all in the shade, but Miss Hamblyn looked serenely uncon- 
scious of the girl’s petulance as she drew on her long white 
gloves. When she had finished she passed her arm affection- 
ately through Bee’s. 

“ Oscar is so charmed with everything ; he thinks things are 
done with such good taste. He has been praising you all up 
to the skies, and praise is not much in Oscar’s line ; if he has a 
fault he is so terribly fastidious, but you have managed to cure 
him.” 

“ Who — I — ” but Bee tried not to look pleased. 

It is so nice to see him look happy again, poor old fellow,” 
continued Miss Hamblyn, with a sigh. “I hope you will let 
him come often, for it will do him so much good.” 

“ We shall always be pleased to see your brother, Nora ; but 
I think he looks very well, and he is always cheerful,” for 
Bee was very matter-of-fact, and though it was perfectly true 
that she found the society of the handsome young barrister 
very seductive, she was not yet completely under his influence. 

“ He is always cheerful in your society, my dear,” returned 
her friend, laughing ; but I am not so sure that mother and 
I find him an entertaining companion,” which was certainly 
true, for the fascinating Oscar was much given to air his little 
tempers in the family circle, and the reverses of fortune and 
private difficulties of his own had not sweetened a naturally 
impatient disposition. He was somewhat self-indulged, and 
pleasure-loving by nature, and he did not like his little amuse- 
ments curtailed. 

Bee blushed very prettily over this speech, but modesty and 
good taste led her to change the conversation by proposing to 
show her friend over the house, and as Nora acceded to this 
with much alacrity, they went out into the corridor arm in 
arm. 

“This is mother’s dressing-room, where she generally sits 
in the morning,” began Bee. “Launce calls it the Sanita- 
rium, because all convalescents pass their days here ; he 
thinks it the nicest room in the house.” 

“It is very- nice, but I like the morning-room better,” ob- 
served Nora, whose critical eyes noticed the old-fashioned 
furniture and rather shabby cretonne. Every other room at 
the Witchens was fitted up handsomely and in modern style, 
but Mrs. Chudleigh had kept for her own use the furniture 
she had used as a girl. Over the mantelpiece hung the por- 
trait of her husband, a handsome man, with Launcelot’s eyes 
but with a sterner cast of countenance, while the walls were 
covered with photographs of their children at different ages, 
in every variety of style and dress, and on a stand in one 
corner was a beautifully finished miniature of a fair-haired 
girl, the Lily who had died. Under this picture there was 
always a vase of flowers. 


^^ONLY SYBIL’S GOVERNESS,” 


141 


In her children's eyes the motlier^s room was simply per- 
fect. No seats were as comfortable as those old-fashioned 
easy-chairs, no couch like the one that stood in the window : 
they regarded the various objects round them as sacred 
treasures. There was their father^s writing-table, his favor- 
ite pictures, the watch that they had all played with in turn, 
the beautiful iron casket where their mother kept her jewels, 
and that no one could lift, and the cabinets of china with the 
lovely old tea-set out of which she had drunk as a girl. 

As a rule Mrs. Chudleigh used this room in the morning; 
she liked to write her letters undisturbed by the girls^ chatter, 
but any invalid requiring quiet always found peaceful har- 
borage in the mother^s room. Even Launcelot would forsake 
his beloved studio if a headache or fatigue hindered work, 
and would expect his share of petting. It was certain Mrs. 
Chudleigh never looked happier than when she was minister- 
ing to her children. Her one regret was that Sybil had out- 
grown her babyhood, and was growing too old to be petted, 
and she often owned that she looked forward to her children 
marrying, that she might have babies in her arms again. 

“ I think it is a lovely room,^’ returned Bee, a little hurt at 
her friend^s disparaging tone; “we all like the dear shabby 
old furniture. Mother wanted to buy a new American rock- 
ing-chair one day that took her fancy, but Launcelot would 
not hear of it. He said she might get it for the morning-room, 
but no innovation could be allowed in the Sanitarium.” 

“ That was very nice of him,” returned Miss Hamblyn, 
vaguely, but in her own mind she thought the rocking-chair 
would have been an improvement. The Chudleighs were cer- 
tainly very conservative and strong in their attachments ; she 
must take care not to offend their little prejudices even if she 
could not understand them. She was very fond of her own 
mother, a gay, handsome woman, but she never expected much 
outward demonstration of affection from her. Lady Hamblyn 
was very proud of her children and indulged them to their 
own detriment, but she never petted them ; she was ambitious 
and planned for their worldly advancement, but she could not 
have effaced herself for their sakes as Mrs. Chudleigh could, 
neither did her children treat her with the same reverence. 
The boys squabbled and fought with each other in her pres- 
ence, and Nora would tell her to her face that she was wrong. 
The girPs bringing up had been altogether a mistake : she had 
been spoilt as a child, and then as a girl kept rather too strictly ; 
no high standard of duty had been placed before her. To be 
accomplished, to make the best of her good looks, to dance 
well, and to make a satisfactory marriage, — satisfactory, that 
is, in a worldly point of view,— had been pointed out as her 
most serious duties. There had been no attempt to check a 
naturally imperious temper, or the smooth selfishness that 
underlay her character ; so it was no wonder the poor girl 
grew up as worldly-minded and pleasure-loving as her mother. 


142 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


When they had reached the school-room there were a few 
words said on the subject of Miss Rossiter. Nora had praised 
this room cordially, and had said that in her opinion Miss 
Rossiter was a very lucky person, “ for you all make so much 
of her, you know,^^ she added, in a voice that somehow con- 
veyed a reproof. 

“Ah, we are all very fond of her,^^ returned Bee, who, like 
Pauline, could be blunt at times. “ She is so good-natured and 
amusing. 

‘ Oh, I dare say ; but it is rather a dangerous experiment, 
lifting people so completely out of their proper position. 
Gentlemen take so much notice of her, and it must be a little 
awkward for you sometimes. Even a sister can be in one^s 
way, — but SybiPs governess 

“Hush! I am so afraid some one vdll hear you. Yes, I 
know what you mean,^^ for Bee had suffered more than one 
pang of jealousy on Miss Rossiter’s account, and that very 
afternoon she had seen Mr. Hamblyn waylay her. “I dare 
say you are right, and no doubt it is injudicious ; but mother 
and Pauline are so devoted to her, and I must say she makes 
herself very necessary to us all.” 

“ I am afraid you are all making a mistake that you may live 
to repent,” returned the other, sententiously. “ I remember a 
family once, where the governess was young and handsome, 
and the uncle — a rich man — ” but here a low laugh from the 
curtained recess in the window startled the girls, and the 
next moment Miss Rossiter stepped down, looking very guilty 
and amused, with her hands held out in supplication. 

“ Do, please, forgive me ; I could not help hearing what you 
said. I never thought you meant to go on,” — trying not to 
laugh, as Miss Hamblyn drew herself up in haughty dis- 
pleasure. “Don^t say any more dreadful things about me, 
please ; they are not a bit true. I don^t want to be in any 
one's way, and I can't help them all being so kind to me ; 
even Bee,” — throwing her arms round her with a hearty 
kiss — “Bee is very cross with me sometimes, but she is very 
good to me too, though I am ‘ only Sybil's governess,' ” with 
a gleam of fun in her eyes, as she looked at Miss Hamblyn. 

“ Listeners never hear any good of themselves ; you deserve 
all you have^ot,” returned Bee, who could not help laughing, 
but Miss Hamblyn looked solemnly displeased. She was in 
an awkward position, and she hated awkward positions. 
She was aware that she had regarded Miss Rossiter from the 
first with inward antagonism, — that she had purposely under- 
valued her on every occasion, — and this untoward circum- 
stance would not add to their friendliness ; altogether it was 
very annoying. This was her first evening at the Witchens, 
and she wanted every one to re^rd her in a favorable light ; 
and now she had made Miss Rossiter her enemy. “ I am 
sure I never meant,” she began, stiffly, but the governess 
Interrupted her with a light laugh,— 


A CINDERELLA DANCE. 


143 


“Please do not trouble yourself about a few words ; every 
one has a right to his own opinion. I will undertake to for- 
give your unflattering estimate of me, if that is what you 
want,^^ and Miss Rossi ter looked so indifferent and amused 
that for once Miss Hamblyn felt small. She scarcely said a 
word as she followed Bee down-stairs ; and it did not add to 
her enjoyment when she found herself seated at the table 
with Miss Rossi ter exactly opposite her, with Bernard and 
Oscar on each side of her, making herself equally agreeable 
to both. 

“ I hope I shall not get to hate her in time,^^ thought Nora, 
as s'he averted her eyes from the bright face and yellowish 
gown, and tried to carry on an animated discussion with 
Oeoflfrey on the merits of the last new book. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A CINDERELLA DANCE. 

“The mood of woman who can tell?”— S cott. 

“A pretty lass though somewhat hasty.”— A^ion. 

If the afternoon had been a success, it was generally allowed 
that the evening was a complete triumph. Even Mr. Ham- 
blyn, who was a great authority in such matters, owned after- 
wards that for an impromptu “small and early” dance the 
Chudleighs had made rather a neat tiling of it, and that they 
had showed good taste in their arrangements. 

In the flrst place the supper had been excellent, and there 
had been a liberal supply of very fair champagne ; then the 
Wimberley band had played in good time and with much 
spirit ; the dark polished oak floor had been perfect, and the 
hall had been brilliantly lighted ; and last, but not least, there 
had been several pretty girls, so it was no wonder Mr. Ham- 
blyn owned that he had passed an exceedingly pleasant 
evening. 

In spite of his sister^s prudent warning, he had contrived to 
pay Beatrix a great deal of attention ; and though she knew 
her duties too well as a hostess to give him as many dances as 
he wished, he made such excellent use of any opportunity that 
occurred, that before they parted that night both he and Bea- 
trix felt that their intimacy had made a considerable stride. 

He had danced twice with Miss Rossiter, who, by Mrs. 
Chudleigh^s wish, had always taken part in all their entertain- 
ments. Miss Rossiter, who was passionately fond of dancing, 
could not And it in her heart to refuse so good a partner, but 
she showed him so plainly that his attentions were repugnant 
to her that Mr. Hamblyn, who had secretly preferred her at 


144 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


first to Beatrix, was piqued and transferred his allegiance to 
his young hostess. 

Bee was looking her best to-night ; some inward happiness 
had brightened her eyes and given fresh bloom to her cheek. 
She looked so fresh, so innocent, so piquante, that Mr. Ham- 
blyn^s roving fancy seemed caugnt at last, and it was with real 
feeling that he said to her, as they sat alone in the morning- 
room, “ What a fortunate thing it was that my mother changed 
her mind at the last moment about Algiers 

Why sak,ed Bee, innocently, as she played with her fan, 
but she blushed a little over the question. 

‘ Need you ask?^^ he returned, softly. “ If we had not gone 
to Mentone I should never have met you, and now we are 
friends. 

Oh, yes, of course we are friends, and Bee glanced at him 
shyly. He looked wonderfully handsome in the dim light ; 
his face was half turned from her, as though his own words 
had moved him, and she could see the perfect profile, with the 
silky moustache. He was almost too beautiful for a man, she 
thought, and her heart beat more quickly with some indefin- 
able emotion. Just then he moved his position, and their eyes 
met ; a sort of electric shock seemed to pass through the girl ; 
she rose and said a little tremulously, — 

“ I am not tired now, and mamma will be wanting me.^' 

“ Do not make me think you are afraid of me ; that would 
make me too miserable, he returned, in the same pleading 
voice, but he did not seek to detain her : perhaps he thought 
he had gone far enough that night. She was a dear girl, and 
he was tempted to make a fool of himself ; but he must not be 
imprudent, there were complications. He had not made up 
his mind, so he took her back to her mother without another 
word, and Bee hardly looked at him when he bade her good- 
night. 

Perhaps Dr. Maxwell was the only person who did not 
thoroughly enjoy the evening. Pauline found to her disap- 
pointment that he did not dance, and that he only remained 
to give his sister pleasure. 

Charlotte has so little amusement in her life, poor girl, 
he said, when Pauline remonstrated with him on his gravity. 

Oh, no, Pdo not dance. I had a weak ankle for some years, 
so I never formed the habit as a young man.^^ 

“Dr. Maxwell, she returned, in a provoked tone, “why 
will you always speak of yourself as though you were middle- 
aged ? It is such nonsense making yourself out so old.'' 

“ I am two-and-thirty," he returned, smiling a little at her 
girlish brusquerie ; “ is not that a grave age?" 

“No, of course not. Launcelot is thirty-two." 

“ Oh, your brother, one would take him for two-and-twentv ; 
he looks quite a boy, and he evidently enjoys dancing, for he 
has not sat out once." 

“ Oh, Launce loves dancing and every sort of amusement. 


A CINDERELLA DANCE, 


145 


X am sure you would like it, if you tried.^^ But Dr. Maxwell 
shook his head. 

I am afraid you will not convert me, Miss Chudleigh, but 
I like to watch you all. You seem so happy. I wish Prissy 
could have been here ; she begged hard to come, but it was 
hardly prudent.^' 

“ But she is much better, is she not?^^ 

“ We hope so ; yes, she is certainly better. The worst of it 
is you young ladies are so imprudent. Prissy is always doing 
foolish things and throwing herself back.^' 

“ So Charlotte says.^' 

“ Oh, we should all of us be lost without Charlotte ; she is 
my mother ^s right hand, and mine too ; and as for Brenda, 
she is utterly dependent on her. I have never seen two sisters 
so devoted to each other. May I ask of what you are think- 
ing, Miss Chudleigh for the girl had raised her clear, serious 
eyes to his, and their expression touched him. 

I was only thinking, she returned, simply, ** what a use- 
ful life yours must be, so many dependent on you for their 
daily comfort. But he reddened slightly at her sympathetic 
tone. 

“ You are very kind to put it in that way ; it is horrid of 
me to be discontented sometimes, is it not?^* 

‘‘Oh, I don^t believe that for a moment. Charlotte was 
only telling us the other day that you are never out of 
humor.^^ 

“ Charlotte is a great goose. 

“And I am a goose too for believing her, I suppose,^^ 
laughing merrily. “No, it will not do. Dr. Maxwell; I 
prefer Charlotte^s opinion ; discontented people are always 
cross. 

“Indeed, you are wrong, more earnestly than the case 
warranted, for she had spoken half in jest, but he was bent 
on proving to this girl that he was a mere mortal, and no 
hero with exaggerated views of duty. 

“I have my moods of discouragement like other people. 
I am often very discontented, not to say morose, only one 
need not show it. I suppose we would all of us like to choose 
our environment, and I must own a few thousand pounds 
in the funds would sweeten existence.’^ 

Pauline elevated her eyebrows, but did not answer ; this 
statement rather surprised her. 

“ I mean,^’ he added, quickly, for he did not wish her to 
mistake his meaning or think him mercenary, “ a few more 
hundreds a year would enable my mother to have a home of 
her own. Kiversleigh is not the place for either Brenda or 
Prissy ; we are too near the river. Riversleigh lies low, and is 
certainly not bracing; they would both be better in the 
country. But what are we to do? My work lies here. I 
could not find a suitable house in the town, and I have Bridge 
House on lease. Prissy ought to go to Montreux or Mentone 
a A: 13 


146 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


again this winter to escape the river fogs, but I know we 
shall not be able to manage it.^^ 

“You must just do the best you can under the circum- 
stances, and leave results, returned Pauline, very sensibly. 
She had seen a great deal of the young doctor during that 
fortnight at Mentone, and they had had long conversations, 
in which Charlotte had joined ; they were quite like old 
friends now. 

“Yes,” he said, smiling at her, for her straightforward 
frankness had pleased him from the first. “ I must just do 
the best I can for them all,” and then Pauline saw her 
partner waiting for her, and reluctantly left her comfortable 
seat. She preferred talking to Dr. Maxwell to dancing with 
Captain Grenfell ; he was so nice and sensible, so superior to 
the usual run of men. 

Once, as she stopped in the giddy round, she looked across 
the hall, and saw that he was still standing in the same place, 
and that he had been quietly watching her; and this gave 
her pleasure, for she somehow wanted him to like her. 

“ Poor little girl, how happy she looks !” thought Dr. Max- 
well, waking up from a brown study, as Pauline gave him a 
bright smile as she passed on her partner's arm. “ She is very 
fresh and naive ; the world has not spoiled her yet. Most peo- 
ple admire the elder sister, and I suppose she is prettier, yes, 
that is the word for her — but there is more in this one^s face.” 

Launcelot had enjoyed the evening most thoroughly. Bee 
assured him very graciously, when she bade him good-night, 
that he had done his duty to his fair guests nobly. 

“ And you danced with Nora three times,” in an approving 
tone. 

“ Oh, yes ; I danced with Miss Hamblyn. Her step just 
suited mine ; but I like Miss Mainwaring^s style quite as 
well.” 

“ Yes, but Patty is so plain, — not that she can help it, poor 
girl ; and Nora is so handsome.” But to this Launcelot made 
no audible reply. He would not hurt Bee^s feelings by saying 
that he did not personally admire her friend. She was a fine 
girl, and very cheerful and talkative ; but he still thought her 
“ earthly, ”-,and the term was conclusive in his mind. 

Towards the end of the evening as the numbers were 
thinning a little, and they had begun to play one of Strausses 
delicious valses, he saw Miss Rossi ter standing alone ; she was 
watching the dancers, and beating time softly with her foot. 
In a moment he was beside her. 

“ Let us try this together,” he said, quietly, but there was 
restrained eagerness in his manner. “ I have never danced 
with you ;” but to his surprise she hesitated and rather drew 
back. 

“ I think you had better choose another partner; there is 
Miss Hamblyn sitting down in the corner.” 

“Ah, I never dance more than three times with any lady ; 


A CINDERELLA DANCE. 


147 


besides, I want to dance this valse with you.^^ Launcelot^s 
tone was a little peremptory, and perhaps Miss Rossiter felt 
she must not disobey the master of the house, for she let him 
put his arm around her without saying anything more. 

“Nonsense, why should I not have one dance with her?” 
thought Launcelot. “ If people talk, they will talk still more 
presently,” and then he became slightly dizzy at the idea he 
had conjured up, and so dismissed it, and gave himself up to 
the pleasure of the moment. 

He had had many good partners in his life, but never such 
a one as Miss Rossi ter. Nora Hamblyn could not hold a 
candle to her ; her time was perfect ; she seemed to glide to 
the music like the spirit of the valse itself ; her light foot 
scarcely touched the floor. 

“That was delicious. We must have one turn more,” he 
pleaded as she stopped. “You do not mean to say you are 
tired ?” 

“ No ; but I would rather not dance any more,” she re- 
turned, so decidedly that he had no option but to lake her to 
a seat. He felt a little puzzled at her evident reluctance to 
dance with him. He had seen her dancing with Geoffrey, 
and, indeed, she had refused no one who had asked her. He 
knew she was not tired. She was a little pale with pleasure 
and excitement, that was all. 

“I am afraid I didn^t satisfy you,” he said, in rather a 
piqued tone. 

“Oh, Mr. Chudleigh, and you dance so beautifully. You 
have been quite the best partner I have had this evening, 
though Mr. Hamblyn waltzes well.” 

“ Then why have you cut short my pleasure?” he persisted 
“ It was very ill-natured of you when I wanted another turn 
so badly.” 

“ Not to-night. Please don^t be vexed. I think I enjoyed 
it too much. It is not good for me. When we were dancing 
together it did not seem right somehow. I can^t explain ; 
and, of course, you think me queer?” 

“Well, you are queer, are you not?” but Launcelot looked 
at her rather anxiously. She was quite pale now, and her 
large gray eyes had a half-frightened expression, as though 
some thought were troubling her. “What am I to under- 
stand by this rigmarole that you think it wrong to dance 
with me?” but she knitted her white brows, and looked as 
though she had hardly understood him. 

“ Come, I am very obstinate by nature, and I want to argue 
this out for my own peace of mind. I like dancing with you 
more than with any one else. Why do you dislike to dance 
with me?” 

“ I do not, I do not. What an idea, Mr. Chudleigh !” 

“ You do not dislike it?” 

Of course not. Why should I, when you dance so beauti- 
fully?” 


148 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


‘‘Thank you, Miss Rossiter. I love compliments. Well 
then but to his chagrin she gave an odd little laugh and 
fled, and he positively saw her no more that evening. 

“What a strange girl!’^ he said to himself as he walked 
away ; but he determined he would have it out with her soon. 
He would finish the picture, and then, — and then ! and again 
there came that glow in his eyes. 

The evening had been a triumph to Bee ; but during the 
next few days her satisfaction was less complete. It was 
evident that the fascinating Nora had found no favor in 
Launcelot’s eyes. 

He was very civil to her, and interested himself in any little 
plan that his sisters had made for the amusement of their 
guest; but he never once offered to be of the party. “Of 
course you will go with them, Geoffrey, he would say, in a 
cool, off-hand manner. He even lent his horse to Geoffrey 
that he might ride with Miss Harnblyn. 

Bee did not dare grumble openly, for the young master of 
the house was a privileged person, and no one ventured to 
criticize his movements ; but she hinted pettishly now and 
then that she wished that tiresome picture was done, for she 
wanted Nora to think that only press of business made 
Launcelot shut himself up all day in his studio. 

But one afternoon when Geoffrey and Miss Harnblyn had 
started for a ride, Launcelot came into the morning-room, 
and asked Pauline if she cared to walk down to Overton with 
him. “ I have some business at the post-office and the bank, 
and as I have been working all the morning, a quick walk 
will do me good.^^ 

Pauline was delighted at the idea. A walk with Launcelot 
was always a much-coveted pleasure ; but Bee, who was 
writing notes, looked up in rather an aggrieved manner. 

“ I thought you were so busy, Launce, or else I would have 
asked you to drive us to Richmond ; it would have amused 
Nora so.^^ 

“Oh, I dare say she finds Geoff lust as amusing,^^ was the 
careless answer ; and then mischiei prompted him to add, “ I 
think Geoff is just a little bit soft on your fair friend. 

“ Nonsense, Launce, how can you be so absurd?” and Bee 
looked quite annoyed. “ Geoffrey is far too sensible to think 
of such a thing. Do you suppose a girl like Nora would have 
anything to do with a briefless barrister, a younger son, too ? 
Nora will marry well, or not at all.” 

“ Geoff will not always be a briefless barrister, my dear. He 
is a rising man.” 

“ Still, Nora would never look at him. He is far too young 
for her,” was the decided answer ; and then Bee went on in a 
plaintive voice, “ I am so disappointed that you do not like 
Nora. She is such a sensible girl ; but you never seem to talk 
to her. She must wonder at it, for she nas always been accus- 
tomed to so much attention.” 


A CINDERELLA DANCE. 


149 


“But, my dear Bee, you forget I am an elder brother. 

“Well, what of that?” rather crossly. 

“ It would never do for me to raise fruitless hopes, and if 1 
were to be too attentive in my character of host Miss Ham- 
blyn might think I was in love with her, and I assure you 
that I never intend to introduce her as your future sister-in- 
law.” 

“Oh, Launce, I do wish you would talk sense. Who ever 
thought of such a thing? I only meant when other girls come 
to the house you are much nicer to them than you are to 
Nora. Oh, I know how you can be when you like people, but 
it is evident that my friends are not to your taste,” and Bee 
tossed her head, for she was in one of her little tempers, and 
went on with her notes ; and Launcelot with a brief whistle, 
that meant volumes, went out into the hall to summon Lion, 
who always accompanied him. 

But he was rather thoughtful as they crossed the common, 
and by and by he began abruptly : 

“Bee is in a pet with me ; she seems put out because I dc 
not admire her favorite. I really believe the silly child is 
disappointed because I have not fallen in love with Miss 
Hamblyn.” 

“Oh, no, Launce,” returned Pauline, eagerly. “ Bee would 
not be so foolish. She said to me only the other day that she 
did not know the girl who was worthy of you, and Nora was 
staying with us then.” 

“What did she mean, then?” he asked, rather puzzled. 

“ Well^ you see, Nora has been accustomed to the very best 
society, and people have made a great deal of her ; in fact, she 
is a girl who expects attention from gentlemen, and Bee is dis- 
appointed because you never offer to escort them an 3 ^ where.” 

“Oh, is that all?” 

“ I think so ;” then, in rather a hesitating voice, for it is not 
always possible to tell everything even to the best of brothers, 
“ Bee is very fond of Nora, and thinks so much of her opin- 
ion, though I must say both Huldah and I think she is ex- 
tremely carping and critical for a girl of her age, and she 
wants her to form a good impression of us all.” But Pauline 
did not add that she thought Bee^s nervous anxiety to make 
Miss Hamblyn^s visit pleasant to her was entirely owing to 
the fact that she was Oscar Hamblyn^s sister. Pauline would 
not have betrayed Bee^s little secret for the world. 

“I suppose that fellow will turn up again on Saturday^” 
was Launcelot^s next question. 

“Whom do you mean,— Mr. Hamblyn? Oh, yes, and ne 
will take Nora back with him. Of course we shall see them 
often on our Saturdays.” 

“lam sorry to hear it,” was the curt answer. “I don^t 
take to Hamblyn ; too much of the fop for my taste.” 

“ But he is very handsome ; you cannot deny that. Huldah 
does not like him, either.” 


13 * 


150 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


‘‘Miss Rossiter shows her discernment. She is a sensible 
young woman,” and then he became silent all at once, for a 
charming face was always before him day and night, and he 
wondered if he could wait until the picture were finished, or 
if he should tell her what had been in his heart so long. 

He was so absorbed by these thoughts that he was quite 
startled when Pauline spoke to him. 

“ Look at those clouds, Lauhce ; we shall have a heavy 
shower directly, and I have no umbrella.” 

“Nor I. I tell you what we will do, Paul : we will cross the 
bridge and take refuge at the Thorpes\ You know I want 
you to call there one day.” 

“ Ah, but Bridge House is nearer ; it is just by the station.” 

“There is not a stone^s throw between them. Never mind, 
we will do both ; call at Bridge House first and then at Priory 
Road.” And to this Pauline agreed. 

As they turned off the bridge the first heavy drops fell, and 
they quickened their steps. The next moment they encoun- 
tered Dr. Maxwell, who was turning in at his own gate. He 
looked very pleased as he shook hands with them. 

“ Are you bringing your brother to call on us. Miss Chud- 
leigh ? It is very good of you. Charlotte is not at home ; 
but all the others will be delighted to see you.” And opening 
the door with his latch-key he ushered them into the wide, 
cool passage, with an open glass door that led into the 
garden. 

Bridge House was a substantial old-fashioned house, evi- 
dently built very early in the century. The windows were 
high and narrow, and an iron gate shut in the front garden. 

The room they entered had folding-doors that were always 
open, and made one long room that stretched from the front 
to the back of the house. It was handsomely furnished and 
arranged with admirable taste. Pauline had fallen in love 
with it from the first. She liked the easy, old-fashioned 
couches and carved Indian cabinets. 

A pretty, ladylike-looking woman in widow^s dress rose 
from a low chair by the window when she saw them. 

“This is my mother,” said Dr. Maxwell; “and this \.unt 
Myra, or rather, I should say. Miss Royston,” laying his hand 
on the shoulder of a tiny, bird-like woman with gray hair, 
who sat by her knitting. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Chudleigh ?” responded Miss Royston, 
in a chirpy voice, and her small face brightened with smiles. 
“I am glad to see you again, my dear,” slipping a soft little 
hand into Pauline^s, for in spite of her blindness Aunt Myra 
was the most sociable creature in the world, and when she 
liked a personas voice nothing pleased her so much as to wel- 
come her again. 

But Launcelot^s attention was drawn to the motionless, 
bright-eyed figure on the invalid couch ; and when Dr. Max- 
well suggested that they must speak to Brenda, he crossed 


A CINDERELLA DANCE 


151 


the room at once and sat down by her, while Pauline chatted 
to Mrs. Maxwell and Aunt Myra. 

Launcelot thought he had never seen a more interesting 
countenance. Miss Maxwell was young, indeed quite a girl ; 
but suffering had worn and sharpened all the youthful lines, 
and robbed her face of coloring. The features were fine, the 
forehead broad and benevolent, and the large eyes were 
wonderfully calm and clear, while nothing could exceed the 
beauty of the hands that lay on the silken couvre-pieds. 

To Launcelot^s surprise, Dante^s “ Purgatory^^ in the original 
lay open before her. Miss Maxwell noticed his look and 
smiled ; she had a very bright, happy-looking smile. 

“This is a favorite study with me, and I am so glad Char- 
lotte and I learned Italian when we were younger ; a transla- 
tion always impoverishes a poet^s language. 

“ It is full of noble and graceful images,” returned Launce- 
lot, taking the book in his hand and glancing at the stanza 
she had just been reading. 

“ ‘ Salve Regina’ on the grass and flowers, 

Here chanting I beheld those spirits sit, 

Who not beyond the valley could be seen.” 

“ I thought I would make a picture of that once,” he went 
on. “The whole scene is so steeped in tranquillity and fra- 
grance, the row of gentle penitents waiting so meekly for 
their allotted task of self-purification, guarded by the two 
angels in vesture ‘green as the tender leaves but newly born,^ 
and the lithe folds of the creeping serpent.” 

“ Yes, indeed, it would be a splendid subject,” she replied, 
eagerly, “ but I believe only Dor6 has illustrated it. You are 
an artist, Mr. Chudleigh. I could find it in my heart to envy 
you, if I ever envied any one.” 

Launcelot looked at her half incredulously. Pauline had 
told him that the girl was hardly ever out of pain, and that 
the doctors held out small hope of improvement. He thought 
if he had been in her place he would have envied the meanest 
creature living who had the use of its limbs. 

Dr. Maxwell answered his unspoken thought : 

“ Brenda is a good girl ; she is always contented, and makeai 
the best of things.” 

“I am quite sure of that,” he returned, softly. “But do 
you never long to change places with people?” 

“To jump into somebody else’s mind and body?” with an 
amused smile. “ No, thank you ; myself and I are old friends 
and have learned to put up with our failings. It is like de- 
serting one's post to run away from oneself. I dare say it all 
sounds nonsense to you, Mr. Chudleigh, but it is the fact that 
I have an immense interest in my own personality ; it will be 
splendid to come right some day.” 

“ Oh, I see what you mean,” and the words “We shall all 
be changed” flashed into his mind ; no doubt that was the 


152 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


idea she meant to convey, only she had expressed herself so 
quaintly ; and his interest deepened as he v/ent on talking to 
her, for he saw that a strong, healthy mind dominated the 
frail, suffering body. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

** BUT THERE IS ERICA.^^ 

“ God bless her, poor thing I she would bring all mankind to bettei 
thoughts if she could.”— i^air Maid of Perth, 

Launcelot was in the midst of a description of Florence 
to which Miss Maxwell was listening with rapt attention 
when they heard the hall door open, and the next moment 
Charlotte entered, followed by a fair, delicate girl, whom her 
brother addressed as Prissy. 

‘‘It is very convenient to have a house doctor, is it not?^^ 
observed Brenda with a smile, when he had ordered Prissy 
with good-humored peremptoriness to take off her wet water- 
proof and change her boots without a minute^s delay. Prissy 
obeyed reluctantly ; she was evidently a spoiled child. 

“ Hedley is quite right, my dear ; please go at once,^^ added 
the mother, gently, and then she gave some order to Charlotte, 
who left the room with her sister. 

“Charlotte looks tired,” observed Brenda, in an aside to 
Pauline ; “she has been to town to execute some commissions 
for Sophy ; she works far too hard for us all. I do not know 
what we should all do without her,” and there was some- 
thing in Brendans tone that told what the sisters were to each 
other. 

If Charlotte was fagged and weary, she kept these facts 
to herself. A trim maid brought in the tea, and Charlotte 
sat down at the little square table, as a matter of course. 

Everything in the Maxwells^ house spoke of better days. 
Che massive silver tea-pot and cream jug and beautiful china ; 
the diamond rings on Mrs. MaxwelPs and Miss Royston^s 
fingers ; th^re was a quiet highly-bred manner, too, about 
Mrs. Maxwell that showed she was conversant with good 
society. She was not a great talker, trouble had subdued lier 
naturally high spirits, but when Dr. Maxwell had been called 
away to a patient she spoke of him to Launcelot with much 
feeling. 

“My son is everything to me,” she said. “What would 
these poor girls have done without him?” and then she 
looked at Brenda, and sighed • “it is a heavy burthen for a 
young man, is it not, Mr. Chudleigh?” 

“ I am quite sure from the little I have seen of Dr. Max- 
well that he bears his burthens very cheerfully,” replied 


^^BUT THERE IS ERICA^^ 


168 


liauncelot, “and I am also certain, looking round the room, 
“ that you all make him very happy ; there is nothing that a 
man likes better than to be fussed over by his womankind 
I assure you I speak from experience, — at which they all 
laughed. 

The rain still continued to fall heavily, so Launcelot pro- 
posed that he should go alone to Priory Road and call for 
Pauline when it had cleared a little, and to this she agreed 
with alacrity. 

‘‘That is nice of him, and now we can have a talk,^^ ob- 
served Brenda, cheerfully ; and Charlotte, who understood her 
meaning without a word, wheeled her sister^s couch into the 
back part of the room, so that she might not be tired by too 
many voices. 

“ Thank you. Char,’’ she said, brightly, “but you need not 
go away. Sit down by me and rest yourself while Miss Chud- 
leigh and I talk. It will do you good,” taking her hand 
caressingly, but Charlotte shook her head. 

“You must not tempt me, my dear. I must write to Soph^ 
and tell her what I have done at the stores ; she will want to 
know when to expect her things. Hedley will require me on 
his return,” and with a little nod she disappeared. 

“Poor dear Charlotte, we all work her too hard,” returned 
Brenda, “ but she does not seem to mind it. I was so glad 
she had that evening’s play at your house ; it did her so much 
good.” 

“ Ah, she must come to us every Saturday, and Prissy too ; 
our friends have carte blanche for the season.” 

“ I am afraid that would be impossible, but we will coax 
Hedley to take Prissy sometimes, when he is not too much 
engaged ; but you must not expect him to stay for the danc- 
ing.” 

“ Oh, we do not dance every Saturday, only now and then ; 
it is just a garden party, people meet their friends and play 
tennis.” 

“ Yes, Hedley said it was charming ; there was no stiffness 
or restraint, everybody seemed thoroughly happy and at his 
ease. I am so glad you brought your brother to see us. I 
like him so much, there is something so real and true about 
him ; and then he is so sympathetic : few young men would 
know how to talk to an invalid.” 

“Launce is not a bit like other young men.” 

“ No; one could see that in a moment. I think I puzzled 
him a little in telling him I did not want to change places 
with any one ; he looked so surprised.” 

“ I think I was surprised too when I heard you say it.” 

“ Oh, but I really meant it, only Aunt Myra is the only one 
who understands me. Of course I should like not to be in 
pain, and to be able to move about like other people, but my 
pain and helplessness are not me ; they are only the accidents 
of the case, the sad environment that surrounds me. I would 


154 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


rid myself of them gladly if I could, but not at the cost of 
getting rid of myself. 

** Launcelot says I am dreadfully prosaic. I don't believe 
I understand you one bit," and then Brenda laughed merrily. 

“ I dare say it does seem strange to people, but I can't help 
my feelings. I am a great deal too fond of myself, but think 
what I have battled through. All these difficulties give one 
an interest in oneself ; one longs to know how the fight will 
go on and what the end will be,--one's life is dreadfully inter- 
esting to oneself." 

“Yes, but you have so little enjoyment in yours," returned 
Pauline, speaking out of the inexperience of her strong, 
vigorous youth. 

“ How do you know that?" was the quick response. “ I am 
tremendously happy sometimes, — and in spite of pain I have 
my pleasures like other people. I enjoy reading and thinking, 
a talk with Charlotte is my greatest treat, and then they are 
all so good to me — mother and Hedley and Prissy — and I must 
not forget Aunt Myra— Aunt Myra is an angel." 

“She seems very cheerful too in spite of her blindness," for 
during the pauses in their conversation they could hear Miss 
Royston's chirping tones. 

“ Of course she is cheerful,— she knows she will see one day, 
and she is not too impatient to wait. Oh, you should hear us 
talk sometimes of how we shall feel when we get to Paradise. 
Aunt Myra says she shall just sit down and look at the beauti- 
ful prospect, and see the angels' faces, — that will be enough 
happiness at first, she thinks ; and I say my idea will be just 
to keep moving about, — walking over the green pastures by 
the River of Life. I should not want to rest. I have had rest 
enough here. I would just move on in that pure unearthly 
light and air, talking first to one and then another. Oh, it 
will be glorious !" 

“You speak as though you could see it all," said Pauline, 
rather enviously, for though she was a good girl, and said hei 
prayers carefully, and was more thoughtful than most young 
people, she had not reached Brenda's standard. 

“ Of course Aunt Myra and I see it ; what would be the use 
cf believing it at all if it did not make one's life happier? 
Bometime& when I lie awake, because my poor back is so bad, 
I cannot help longing for the end to come quickly, but Hedley 
says there is no chance of that, that I have far too much vi- 
tality in me, and that it is possible that I may live a great 
many years unless any fresh complications arise." 

“Well, does not that make you unhappy?" 

“Not often, though of course I am depressed at times like 
other invalids, and then Charlotte and Hedley are so good to 
me because they know I cannot help it ; oh, I do not often fret. 
When the pain is very bad, I try to bear it by thinking that 
one day there shall be no more pain, that this stupid back of 
mine will leave off aching some day, that my suffering now 


^^BUT THERE IS ERICA,^^ 


155 


Is nothing compared to my future enjoyment, and that it will 
be really I who will enjoy all the good things. So no wonder 
I would not change places with anybody, and if you were to 
talk to Aunt Myra you would find that she felt the same.’^ 

“ I don^t think I shall pity you any more. Miss Maxwell. 

To be sure you will not. I never could bear to be pitied. 
Why, think how much worse it might be. Some people have 
to stay in bed for years, and to spend their days alone, while 
I am able to use this nice couch, and be with my dear ones all 
day long. Do you know, Charlotte and I share such a nice 
room on this fioor, for I could not manage stairs? It ought to 
have been a study for Hedley, but he has to use the dining- 
room for his patients. They have fitted up a nice little study 
for him up-stairs, which he uses in the evening, but it is not 
HO convenient for him.^^ 

“ Charlotte told me that she never left you alone at night. 

“No ; they think I should be dull, away from them all, but 
that is nonsense. I am never dull, but all the same I like to 
have Charlotte with me ; it is our time for quiet talk. Ah, 
there is Mr. Chudleigh back again, and you must go, but you 
will come and see us soon again 

“Indeed I will, returned Pauline, earnestly: and as the 
rain had stopped, and the evening promised to be fine, they 
decided to walk up the hill, instead of taking a hansom. 

“Pauline, I like those people, observed Launcelot, with 
hearty emphasis, as they recrossed Overton Bridge. “Mrs. 
Maxwell is a most ladylike woman, and as for poor Miss Max- 
well, she seems a fine intelligent creature. I quite approve of 
your new friends, my dear. It is an education to be among 
such women. I wish Bee had shared your good taste. 

“ I am so glad you like them, Launce,^^ returned his sister. 

“Yes; and I shall ask Dr. Maxwell to dine when Thorpe 
comes next week. He has not fixed the day yet; I want 
them to know each other. By the bye, Paul, I was sorry you 
were not with me ; Miss Thorpe would have liked to see you. 
She said so more than once, and just as we were talking about 
you who should come in but Thorpe himself, quite unex- 
pectedly, for he had written to say that he might be detained 
for days ! I was so pleased to see him.” 

“And he has really promised to come next week?” 

“ Yes ; he made no sort of objection, and he looked pleased 
when I said I should ask Dr. Maxwell to meet him. He does 
not seem quite the thing, rather hipped. I saw Miss Thorpe 
was watching him somewhat anxiously. I am afraid he has 
rather a dull life, poor fellow.” 

“ Perhaps he wants his wife back?” hazarded Pauline, who 
was aware of the bare facts of the case. “It does seem so 
dreadful, Launce, when married people find they cannot get 
on with each other.” 

“ People ought to have more forbearance with each other, 
my dear; most likely Thorpe who is an excellent fellow in 


166 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


hi 8 way, would have done better with a different sort of 
woman. Of course I am no judge in such matters, but I 
should have thought Thorpe would have made a first-rate 
husband. He is reserved, but has plenty of feeling, and he is 
even-tempered. I like the way he treats his sister ; he is so 
thoughtful, too, in little things. 

So is Dr. Maxwell, I am sure,^^ replied Pauline, whoso 
thoughts were still dwelling on her friends, and to this Launce- 
lot yielded a warm assent, and the long walk was very 
pleasant to them both, as they exchanged their ideas on the 
excellences of the Maxwell family. 

The following Saturday there was another gathering of 
young people at the Witchens, but this time there was no 
band and no impromptu dance for the evening. 

Launcelot, who was much absorbed by his picture, — indeed, 
he was often at work by six o^ clock in the morning, — had 
given orders that no one was to enter the studio, and it was 
not until he heard the carriages driving up for the departing 
guests that he remembered that Miss Hamblyn was leaving 
them, and put down his brushes and palettes in a hurry. 

The lawn was almost empty, but a group of young people 
were chatting and laughing outside the drawing-room win- 
dow, and a little apart from them were Beatrix and Mr. 
Hamblyn, talking rather earnestly together, but they stopped 
directly they saw him, and it struck Launcelot that Bee 
looked a little conscious and confused. 

I am glad you have put in an appearance at last, Launce,^^ 
she said, with meaning emphasis on the words “at last.^' 
“ Nora thought that she would have to go away without bid- 
ding you good-bye, and had sent you a reproachful message ; 
she is getting ready now, and they are putting the luggage on 
the carriage. 

And as she spoke Miss Hamblyn came out of the house. 
She received Launcelot^s excuse very graciously, for she had 
made up her mind, in spite of a natural pang of wounded 
vanity, that no coldness on the part of the young master of 
the house should prevent her intimacy with the Chudleighs. 
and she spoke a word to this effect, when she found herseli 
alone with her brother. 

His first speech had been a little provoking. 

“You have played your cards badly there, I am afiaid, 
Nora,” he had said, with the brutal frankness to which some 
brothers are addicted. “ Mr. Chudleigh was very cool in his 
leave-taking; he is a pleasant enough fellow in his way, 
but I fancy he has not taken much to either of us.” 

“ I do not think he is a marrying man,” returned Nora, 
with the utmost composure, though she had winced a little at 
this plain speaking ; “ but I have always found him very nice. 
I certainly mean to cultivate the Chudleighs, Oscar ; they are 
very desirable people to know. The house is delightful, and 
80 are their friends ; and as for Bee, she is a dear girl.” 


^^BUT THERE IS ERICA.^^ 


167 


‘ I am beginning to be of the same opinion myself,” he 
returned, coolly; but here Nora looked at him rebukingly, 
and held up an admonishing finger. 

“ Oscar, I do hope you mean to be careful.” 

‘‘Come, now, no preaching; you know I never interfere 
with your little games, Nora.” 

“No, but do listen to me, just this once, like a good boy. 
Bee is my friend, and she is far too nice for any stupid fiirta- 
tion ; her brother would not like it, and we should both be 
banished from the Witchens. You are a dangerous person, 
Oscar ; you make girls think you are in love with them, ana 
then you suddenly get tired of them. I won^t have my dear 
little Bee made unhappy.” 

“ But supposing I am really hit for once ; even a fiirt gets 
caught at last.” 

“I do not believe it,” in a very decided tone ; “ you are only 
deceiving yourself or me. It will not do, Oscar, at any price. 
Bee has not more than five thousand pounds of her own.” 

“Well, five thousand is a neat little sum,” replied her 
brother. His tone seemed to mystify Nora, for she looked at 
him in genuine alarm. 

“ You cannot mean that you are really thinking of it ? You 
are only trying to frighten me ? Of course I should love to 
have Bee for a sister-in-law, but there is Erica ; now it is no 
use your looking angry whenever I mention Erica^s name, — 
much as you try the poor girl, I do not think that you would 
venture to treat her badly.” 

“ Erica — always Erica,” in a fretful tone. “ I tell you what 
it is, Nora, I shall get to hate her if you and the mother per- 
sist in always worrying me about her. She gives me trouble 
enough without your adding to it ; one would think we were 
actually engaged to see how she takes me to task.” 

“ I consider you are engaged to Erica,” was the unfiinching 
reply. 

Then Oscar^s brow grew very black, and he muttered a 
strong word under his breath. 

“ Oh, you need not put yourself out,” went on Nora, who 
had heard the strong word. “It is all very well for you to 
say that you and Erica are cousins, and that your attentions 
mean nothing but cousinly aflection. When there are two 
thousand a year in the case, attentions generally mean a good 
deal ; especially when the gentleman has college debts and 
wants a little capital.” 

“ Nora, you are enough to drive a fellow crazy ; if you told 
Miss Chudleigh that I was engaged to my cousin Erica, you 
told a confounded lie, and did me the worst possible turn, 
and” — ^very savagely — “ I vow I will never forgive you.” 

“ My dear boy, why will you put yourself in such a fearful 
rage because I give you a word of sisterly advice, all for your 
good ? Is it not understood between us that we are never to 
Interfere with each other^s little plans ? Of course I have not 

14 


158 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


breathed a word about Erica^s existence to either Bee or 
Pauline. 

Then Oscar^s moody brow relaxed, and he drew a long 
breath of relief. 

But all the same, I do think you ought to consider Erica , 
if ever a girl was fond of a man, that girl is Erica. 

I wish she would not show her fondness then, by being 
jealous of every woman to whom I say a civil word. I know 
if I were engaged to her to-morrow, she would make my life 
miserable ; her own want of beauty has soured her, I believe, 
for she will not tolerate a pretty face.” 

“Oscar, I do think you are too hard on poor little Erica; 
she is really very nice-looking when she is well dressed.” 

But a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders was the sole 
answer to this ; and there was a few minutes’ silence between 
the brother and sister, during which Oscar looked out of the 
window and thought of Bee’s pretty, blushing face. 

Just then Nora disturbed his reverie. 

“ Oscar, I do wish you would tell me frankly exactly how 
you stand with Erica.” 

“I am not engaged to her, that is all I know,” he replied, 
brusquely. 

“ Perhaps not ; but you cannot tell me to my face that Erica 
does not expect to be your wife.” But to this he made no 
audible reply. 

“ Three years ago you asked her to marry you — ” 

“ And she refused — you had better add that.” 

“She refused because with all her love for you she saw 
plainly that you did not care for her. I think Erica did a 
wise thing then.” 

“ I don’t think I need be blamed then if I looked elsewhere 
for a wife.” Then she looked dubiously in his face. 

“ The question is, whether that offer has ever been repeated ? 
Of course you will not answer, Oscar” — as he broke into a low 
whistle — “ of course you will tell me it is not my affair, but it 
is evident to me that Erica considers you bound to her.” 

“Perhaps both you and she will find yourselves mistaken 
one day,” was the imperturbable answer ; and then his man- 
ner changed, and he said a little roughly, “ Look here, Nora, 
if things are to be pleasant between us you must just drop 
this sort of talk. Leave me to manage Erica. I assure you 
we Quite understand each other. Erica is not the fool you 
think her, neither am I then Nora knew she must not say 
another word. 

Oscar was not in the best of moods that evening ; he had 
succeeded in silencing his sister, but he could not forget her 
words, and he knew she had spoken the truth. His position 
was an awkward one ; a rich wife was indispensable to him, 
and he knew that every tie of honor and mutual understand- 
ing bound him to his cousin Erica. But he was not in love 
with her, he never had been, and of late these bonds had 


DO NOT LIKE SAD THINGS,^* 


159 


growD irksome to him ; he was half disposed, too, to make a 
fool of himself on account of Bee^s pretty face. “It is a con- 
founded business altogether. I wisn I could see my way out 
of it,” he thought, as he smoked his solitary cigar that night. 
“Nora is too sharp by half, but I know better than to trust 
her. I suppose I ought to give the Witch ens a clear berth 
until I get over this fancy. Supposing I keep away next Sat- 
urday, poor little thing, she will be disappointed — and I prom- 
ised to go down ; never mind, perhaps something will turn up 
to keep me in town. I need not hother my head about it 
now,” and the result of this vacillating policy was that Oscar 
did go down to the Witchens that Saturday, and many suc- 
ceeding ones, and that the complication showed no signs of 
growing clearer, while certain reproachful letters, with the 
signature “ Erica Stewart,” began to accumulate in the secret 
drawer of Oscar's desk. 


CHAPTER XX. 

“I DO NOT LIKE SAD THINGS.” 

“ She has a quick and lively imagination and keen feeling, which are 
apt to exaggerate both the good and evil they find in life.^’— Guy Man- 
nering, 

“ I cannot endure the sight of woman’s tears.”— JvanTioe. 

Launcelot was making such progress with his picture that 
he hoped to complete it in another fortnight or three weeks. 
The sittings had long ceased, but as yet there had been no 
opportunity for coming to an understanding with Miss Rossi- 
ter ; ever since that dance it had seemed to Launcelot that she 
had kept more than usual to the school-room, and that she 
was never to be seen without her little pupils. She had always 
been accustomed to spend her evenings in the drawing-rooms 
and to join in anything that went on, but now when Launce- 
lot entered the room after dinner he often missed her, and, on 
questioning Bee, would hear she was reading, or writing let- 
ters, or that Pauline and she had retired to the school-room to 
study Italian together. One day he encountered her acciden- 
tally on the common. She and the children were returning 
from a long country walk. Dossie was hanging on one arm 
and Sybil on the other, and the three seemed very happy and 
merry. 

Launcelot stood by the green door in the wall, watching 
them as they came slowly across the grass, threading their 
way through the brambles. Dossie was the first to see him ; 
she dropped the governess's arm and ran forward to meet 
him. 

“Oh, Mr. Lance I” she exclaimed, breathlessly, “we have 


160 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


had such a walk, and Miss Bossiter has been telling us such i 
wonderful story. I don’t think I ever heard such an interest- 
ing one.” 

Children are generous critics,” observed Miss Bossiter, 
with a smile at this outspoken compliment ; “ they appreciate 
one’s poor little efforts to amuse them most kindly ; grown- 
up people are far more fatiguing.” 

“Is that why you have avoided us as much as possible 
lately?” asked Launcelot, quietly, as he drew back to let her 

E ass. How bright and winsome she looked this morning in 
er cool summer dress and shady hat ! which did not hide, 
however, the shapely neck and coils of ruddy brown hair. 

“What do you mean?” she returned, looking up at him 
with a gleam of fun in her eyes ; but her tone was perfectly 
demure. 

“Is it because grown-up people fatigue you that you have 
ceased to give us your company in the evening?” he asked, 
pointedly. “Why have you punished us by this desertion. 
Miss Bossiter ? why are we to miss the songs that give us so 
much pleasure?” 

“Oh, I have been busy,” she answered, carelessly, — but it 
struck Launcelot that her carelessness was a little assumed, — 
“ and then Pauline and I wanted to get on with our Italian, 
and there was no other quiet time.” 

“ I must speak to Pauline,” he returned, seriously. “ I can- 
not have gaps in the family circle of an evening. Pauline 
must study Italian at another time, and I hope” — with a 
slight emphasis — “ that you will not be too busy to sing to us 
to-night.” 

“Oh, if you wish it,” she returned, quickly. “I did not 
mean to make myself disagreeable ; but one is not always in 
the mood to sing, and it is possible that one may be busy at 
times. But if you and Mrs. Chudleigh wish to hear me sing 
I have no right to refuse.” 

“ Miss Bossiter, if you speak in that tone I will never ask 
you to sing again ?” 

“ In what tone?” she asked, rather provokingly. 

“As though you were under orders. As though we hid 
a right to demand what I was asking as a favor. Oh, you 
know what L mean ; you were only pretending to misunder- 
stand me.” 

“It is no pretence to recognize my own position,” a little 
proudly. “ I never forget for one moment that I am only the 
governess. I have to be under orders, as you call it. I like to 
carry out all Mrs. Chudleigh ’s wishes ; it makes me happy 
only to serve her. If she wishes me to sing to her I would try 
to do my best, if I were as hoarse as a raven. I love her so, 
that I would be her servant if she needed me.” 

Launcelot looked at her very quietly. “ I like you to feel like 
that,” he said, gravely ; “ it gives me pleasure to hear you.” 
Then, very slowly, “ 1 am glad you love Madella in that way,” 


“/ DO NOT LIKE SAD THINGS.** 


161 


“ Oh, yes,^^ she returned, but she began to walk more 
quickly towards the house, and she still held Dossiers hand. 
“ I think I loved her the first moment I saw her. When she 
spoke to me and I looked at her kind, beautiful face, I lost my 
heart to her at once, — she is so good, so good,^^ but here she 
turned her head aside that Launcelot might not see the tears 
that had started to her eyes. 

Launcelot made no reply to this, but as they crossed the 
lawn he said suddenly, — 

“You never ask after the picture now, and it is nearly 
finished ; come into the studio a moment and look at it. I 
should like to have your opinion and as she hesitated, he 
continued a little impatiently, “ You need not fear I shall 
detain you, and the children will like to see it.^^ And then 
she followed him without another word. 

But Launcelot knit his brows as he undid the curtain that 
hung before the unfinished picture. “Does she guess any- 
thing from my manner he thought, anxiously. “ For some 
reason or other she is unwiiling to be alone with me ; ever 
since the dance I have noticed a change in her. She tries to 
be frank and like her old self, but there is an effort. But he 
had banished these uneasy refiections when he stepped back 
from his picture. 

“ Well,^’ he said, gayly, “ what do you think of it? Do you 
recognize yourself, Elizaoeth?^^ 

“ Oh!” she returned, earnestly, and he could see the surprise 
and awe in her eyes, “it is far too beautiful for me ; it is a 
lovely picture. Oh, how sad and frightened she looks, that 
poor Elizabeth ! and how the waves are washing to her feet, 
—you can almost hear them ; and the youngest child is in 
her arms, and she wants to take the other, and she knows 
they are to die together ; and there is the poor husband wait- 
ing for her, and before her is her watery grave. Oh, I cannot 
look at it any longer !” 

“What is it?” he asked, anxiously, for he was astonished 
at the effect of the picture. She haa come up to it a little 
smiling and conscious, as though she were looking at herself 
in a mirror, and her lips were parted with shy amusement. 
She had taken off her hat, and he could see her face plainly. 

“It is far too beautiful for me,” she had said, blushing 
slightly over her words ; and then all at once her eyes had 
grown wide and piteous, and her cheeks were pale. “ Oh, 
poor thing, poor thing !” she said, and there was a sob in her 
voice. “ It is her fate, and she cannot escape it ; and there is 
despair in her face, for she knows it is her fate.” 

“My dear Miss Rossiter!” he remonstrated, for Sybil was 
looking at her in astonishment. And then he said quietly, 
“ You have walked too far, and you are tired. Sit down for a 
moment, and I will bring you a glass of wine. Stop with 
her, Dossie, and, Sybil, come with me,” for he was afraid of 
SybiPs sharp, curious glances. 

I U* 


162 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


“She is very emotional, he thought, as he got the wine. 
“ I wonder why she was upset at seeing the picture ? She is 
far too sensitive about things.^^ 

Miss Rossiter had recovered Jierself during his brief absence , 
she even laughed a little w’hen she saw the glass of wine in 
his hand. 

“ How foolish I am she said, in a tone of apology. “ 1 
suppose after all I must have over-tired myself; and some- 
how that picture gave me a turn— I sat for it, you know,— and 
it is so sad, and I do not like sad things. 

“No,’^ he returned, cheerfully, “the sunshine suits you 
best ; but you are better now, are you not?^^ 

“ Oh, yes ; much better. Come, Dossie, we must not hinder 
Mr. Chudleigh any longer.” 

“ One moment more,” detaining her. “You will be in the 
drawing-room this evening. I have a friend coming, and we 
want to have some music.” 

“Very well. Shall you show your friend that picture?” she 
asked, quickly. 

“No, not until it is finished. It is only you who have 
been treated to a private view.” And then she smiled and 
led Dossie away. 

“Yes, she is very emotional,” he said again as he stood op- 
posite his picture. “ How life-like it is ! if Miss Rossiter were 
in trouble she would look like that ; one could imagine the 
expression on her face. 1 wonder if she has ever known 
great trouble ? sometimes I fancy she has. And yet she is so 
gay and light-hearted. Will she ever tell me about her life ? 
There is one thing of which I am sure, — that I shall never be 
able to part with this picture.” And then he carefully 
painted in a bit of drapery. 

After all, Launcelot did not do much more work that day, 
for at luncheon Sybil coaxed him to take her and Dossie for a 
drive. He had seen very little of Dossie lately ; his picture 
had engrossed him, and the child was much occupied with 
her lessons. But now and then he would come upon her and 
Sybil playing in the garden, and he would be touched to see 
how Dossie would at once leave her game and run up to him. 
Sometimes Miss Rossiter would see them from the window 
walking slnwly up and down the long shrubbery path ; the 
young man with his head bent down a little, Dossie with her 
hands clasped round his arm, and her small, eager face up- 
turned to his. 

“ I wonder what you and Mr. Chudleigh were talking about, 
Dossie?” Miss Rossiter would say, putting back the child^s 
long fair hair with caressing hand, for she had grown very 
fond of her gentle little pupil. Dossie gave her no trouble, 
and was a most sweet, affectionate child. 

“ Oh, of course we were talking of father,” would be the in- 
variable reply ; and sometimes it would be, “I wanted to 
show my letter to Mr. Lance, but he says he is going to write 


DO NOT LIKE SAD THINGS.*^ 


163 


to father himself,^^ for with his usual unselfishness and good 
nature Launcelot wrote brief, graphic accounts of Dossie to 
poor Jack, which were supplemented by long, womanly ones 
from Aunt Della. How the poor exile gloated over these 
letters, how his eyes gleamed at the sight of them ! Dossiers 
childish effusions were read until they were threadbare. 
Jack knew some of the simple sentences by heart. 

You must not think that I forget you, father dear, because 
I am so happy here, for I am always thinking about you, and 
trying to grow up quickly that I may be ready for you. Mr. 
Lance and I do have such nice talks together. I think him 
still quite the nicest man in the world ; and, father dear — I 
think I must tell you a great secret— when I grow up really, 
I mean to marry Mr. Lance because I love him so.” How 
Jack roared over that sentence ! He was even faithless enough 
to betray Dossie. 

“ I wonder if you intend to be faithful to your childish sweet- 
heart?” Jack wrote once; “perhaps you did not know that 
Dossie has lost her heart to you, and declares she will marry 
no one else. Oh, the beautiful faith of childhood, that creates 
its own happiness ! God bless you, old fellow, for making my 
little girl so happy ! What do I not owe to you and Della ! 
If it does not make a different man of me, my name is not 
Jack Weston.” 

One Sunday afternoon when the two little girls were sit 
ting with him under the big elm on the lawn, Sybil said 
rather fretfully, for she was accustomed to be spoiled by her 
brothers, — 

“You do not like Dossie better than me, do you, Launce? 
You ought not to be fonder of her, because she is not your 
sister.” 

“No, my dear,” looking at the pretty, puckered-up face in 
some surprise. “ What should have put such an idea into your 
little head? I am very fond of you both, Sybil.” 

“ Yes, but I am your sister,” persisted Sybil, who was in one 
of her jealous moods, “ and Dossie does not belong to you a 
bit. Freckles said so the other day : she is not your real cousin, 
though she is ours.” 

“Never mind, she is my little friend,” returned Launcelot, 
taking his favorite^s hand, for Dossiers head drooped rather 
sadly at this speech, and he could see her lip was quivering. 
“You see. Uncle Jack gave her to your mother and me, so of 
course she is our little girl, and I shall always feel that she 
belongs to us.” 

“Yes, but Dossie is so silly,” went on Sybil, who was bent 
on airing her imaginary grievances. “I heard her tell Miss 
Rossi ter once that when she grew up. to be a woman she meant 
to marry you. Oh, they thought I was not listening, but I 
heard every word, and though Dossie was so stupid. Miss 
Rossiter did not scold her a bit ; she only laughed and said she 
could not marry a better man.” 


164 ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 

Laiincelot bit his lip to conceal a smile, and then he put on 
a severe look. 

“ I do not think it is kind of you, Sybil, to repeat poor Dos- 
siers little speeches, especially when they were not intended 
for our ears ; a man would call that dishonorable, and I did 
not think my little sister could behave so badly, rr and as Sybil 
colored under this unexpected rebuke, he turned to his droop- 
ing little sweetheart. 

“ Don^t cry, darling ; Sybil was very naughty to tell me, but 
we won't mind it, Dossie, you and I. You are father's little 
girl and mine too, and no one shall find fault with our affection 
for each other. God knows I cannot afford to lose even a child's 
love, so I am not ungrateful for yours," and so saying he wiped 
her tears away with a firm kindly hand, and then kissing 
her forehead gently, bade them both run away to Miss Bos- 
siter. 

He recounted this little scene afterwards to Miss Rossi ter ; to 
his surprise she listened with unwonted gravity. 

“ Dossie is very young for her age,— Sybil would never have 
made such a speech, — but she is the most innocent child." 

“ I hope she may long remain so ; it is Dossie' s great charm to 
me. Do you notice how pretty she is getting. Miss Rossi ter ?" 

‘‘ I think she will be pretty, when she has more color and 
fills out a little. She is certainly devoted to you, Mr. Chud- 
leigh ; when you are out, she watches for you from the window, 
and nothing makes her happier than to arrange flowers for 
the studio." 

“She is a dear child," was the answer, and then the con- 
versation turned upon Sybil, who was just now leading her 
governess a life. 

Launcelot took the children for a drive that afternoon, and 
it was so late when they returned that they found Miss Rossi- 
ter Thatching for them in the glass portico, evidently uneasy 
at the delay. 

“ 01^" she said in a tone of relief, as she lifted Dossie down, 
while Sybil scrambled over the wheel, “Mrs. Chudleigh will 
be so glad you have arrived. We both thought some accident 
must have happened, but no, you have only tired your poor 
horse to death, that is the way with you gentlemen." 

“ It is not my way," returned Launcelot, lightly. “ Ruby 
looks ratherhot certainly, but we have done her no harm, have 
we, old girl?" patting her glossy brown neck, while the mare 
whinnied with pleasure, and rubbed her nose delightedly 
against his coat-sleeve. “ But I am afraid I am late, and my 
friends will be here directly. I see you are dressed for Miss 
Rossiter was in her customary black lace evening dress, only 
to-ni^ht she had a knot of yellow roses at her throat. “ Re- 
member," as she turned away, with the children as usual 
hanging upon her, “we must have all the nicest songs to- 
night, for Dr. Maxwell is very fond of music." 

“Very well," she said, smiling, and Launcelot looked after 


DO NOT LIKE SAD THINGS,^* 


16.5 


her thoughtfully as he stood still stroking Kuby^s neck. “ To- 
morrow — I must speak to her to-morrow,” he said to himself 
as he went up to his room. Launcelot was certainly very late. 
Long before he had finished dressing Fenwick came to his door 
to say both the gentlemen had arrived. 

“ Madella will say I have managed badly,” he thought, with 
some annoyance. “ Those little monkeys made me forget the 
time ; it is an awful nuisance. Thorpe knows none of them, 
and will have to do the best he can. I don^t mind keeping 
Maxwell waiting, but with Thorpe it is different,” and he 
uttered another execration against his own carelessness. 

He was hurrying down the lobby a few minutes later, when 
he caught sight of Miss Rossiter standing at the window over- 
looking the front court. She turned round quickly as though 
startled, and then he saw her more clearly. 

‘‘Miss Rossiter!” he exclaimed, much shocked, “what is 
the matter? you are ill? something has happened?” for her 
face was quite white, and there was a curious, frightened ex- 

E ression in her eyes, an expression he had never seen in them 
efore, and yet which struck him as strangely familiar. What 
could it mean ? A quarter of an hour ago she had parted from 
him smiling and radiant, and now she was shrinking into the 
folds of the curtains as though she would avoid him. 

“ There is nothing the matter,” trying to laugh it off, but it 
was a miserable effort. “It is only that I do not feel quite 
well. I am a little faint — and— and giddy.” 

“ This is the second time to-day. You alarm me. Miss Ros- 
si ter ; your hand is as cold as ice,” holding it tightly for a 
moment, though she tried to draw it away. “And, good 
heavens, you are trembling. Shall I call Madella or Pauline?” 

“No, no !” — but she could hardly speak,— “ call no one ; it 
will pass. I will go and lie down ; please leave me, Mr. 
Chudleigh.” 

“I hardly know how I am to leave you,” he said, very 
gently ; “ but perhaps if you lie down that will be best. I 
shall send you up some champagne, and you must promise me 
to take it ; for, indeed, I never saw any one look so ill.” 

“ I will take it if you will tell no one, — no one at all, Mr. 
Chudleigh,” detaining him nervously. “ I do not wish any 
one to know I am ill. It will pass, — it always passes.” 

“Very well,” he returned, reluctantly, and then very 
slowly she moved away. She was not faint, for there was 
no faltering in her step, and it was the same graceful walk as 
ever ; but should he ever forget the expression on her face ? 
and where had he seen it before ? Then suddenly, with a fiash, 
he remembered his picture, and the piteous, terrified expres- 
sion in Elizabeth’s eyes as she thought of her drowning babes, 
and her very soul fainted for fear. Good heavens ! and this 
terrified, appalled look was in Miss Rossiter’s eyes, too, and 
yet it was only illness and not deadly peril advancing to meet 
her. What did it mean? what could it mean? and it was 


166 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


with a very grave face that Launcelot entered the drawing- 
room and made apologies to his guests. 

Once or twice during the progress of that long dinner Mrs. 
Chudleigh looked anxiously at her step-son. She thought 
Launcelot was a little distrait and not quite in his usual spirits. 
** Those children have tired you with their chatter, Launce,^^ 
she said once ; but Launcelot disclaimed this with a smile. 

No one else at the table noticed his gravity. Dr. Maxwell 
was talking to Geoffrey and Pauline. Bee, who had very 
pretty manners, was devoting herself to Mr. Thorpe's amuse- 
ment. Mr. Thorpe was as quiet as ever, but seemed thoroughly 
at his ease, and he and Dr. Maxwell seemed to get on excel- 
lently together. 

Nothing was said about Miss Rossiter until the gentlemen 
had adjourned to the drawing-room, and then Pauline spoke 
to Launcelot. 

“Is it not a pity, Launce?" she said, in a vexed tone. 
“ Huldah has a dreadful headache, and is obliged to go to bed, 
and all our prettiest quartettes will be lost but to her sur- 
prise her brother took her by the arm and led her outside the 
open window. 

“ I want to speak to you a moment, Paul. I feel uneasy 
about Miss Rossiter. I saw her before dinner, and I thought 
she looked dreadfully ill. Do you think Dr. Maxwell would 
prescribe for her? Or we could send for Egerton?" and there 
was no mistaking Launcelot's anxiety ; but Pauline took it 
all very coolly. 

“ Nonsense, Launce, it is only a bad sick-headache ; at least, 
Huldah said something about being subject to this sort of 
nervous attack, though I don't believe we ever saw anything 
of the kind before. I think it is ridiculous of a girl of her age 
to talk of nerves." 

“ I do not agree with you, — she is very sensitive ; but surely, 
Paul, you must have thought her looking ill?" 

“Well, I can hardly say I have seen her; the room was 
quite dark, and she could not bear me to pull the blind up, or 
to ask her questions. Huldah hates any fuss when she is ill." 

“It was a very sudden attack," observed Launcelot 
thoughtfully. 

“So the children say. I went into the school-room to 
question th^. Sybil says they were all laughing together, 
and that Huldah noticed Puff, the gray kitten, you know, 
was mewing to be let out, so she carried her down the corri- 
dor. They were in the middle of a game. Huldah was teach- 
ing them, so they waited impatiently for her to come back ; 
but to their surprise she did not come, and by and by Dossie 
found her lying on her bed, and complaining of intense head- 
ache. Dossie wanted to bathe her head with eau de cologne 
and water, but Huldah only begged to be left alone. I do 
not mean to let mother go to her, because talking makes her 
BO much worse ; and I dare say she will soon fall asleep." 


DO NOT LIKE SAD THINGS.^* 


167 


The music will not disturb her 

*‘Oh, no, she will not even hear it, at least I think not. 
Oh, there is Bee playing an accompaniment ; we must go in, 
Launce,” and Pauline disengaged herself from his detaining 
hand, and tripped back into the room. 

Dr. Maxwell took his leave somewhat early, — he had a 
patient to see on his way home, — but Launcelot induced Mr. 
Thorpe to smoke a cigar on the lawn, promising to walk with 
him across the common. 

‘‘We will bid good-night to the ladies,^^ he said, “ and though 
I am no smoker myself I have a cigar that I think you will like 
particularly, Thorpe ; and as I know you keep most uncon- 
scionable hours, like most literary men, there is no reason 
why we should not enjoy the view from the terrace. And 
to this his friend made no objection, but he pretended to 
grumble at Launcelot^s obstinate refusal to admit him into 
the studio. “ I thought I was to see that picture and write a 
critique in the ‘ Imperial Review,^ he said, smiling. 

“Do you happen to have your pocket-book with you, 
Tho^e?^^ 

“ Certainly. May I ask why 

“ Because I wish you to make a memorandum. I shall ex- 
pect you to dine with us to-day three weeks ; the picture will 
be completed then, and we will have our coffee in the studio.” 

“ Very well ; let me see, that will be Wednesday, August 3. 
I will try not to disappoint you. Now shall we go to the ter- 
race? You are right, this cigar has a fine fiavor. I smoke 
very rarely, and never unless I can get a choice cigar ; pipes 
were never in my line.” 

“I am glad you are satisfied with it,” returned Launcelot, 
absently, but it may be doubted whether he heard Mr. 
Thorpe^s encomium. They were standing together on the 
gravel path outside the drawing-room window, in a broad 
patch of silvery moonlight ; the school-room window was 
just above them. Was it fancy, or did Launcelot see a dark 
figure standing near it? The next moment he could have 
sworn that Miss Bossiter^s pale face was looking down upon 
them, though it was gone in an instant. 

“ She wants air, and the cigar will be unpleasant to her,” 
thought Launcelot, as he took his friend’s arm and walked 
quickly towards the terrace ; “ she told me once she hated the 
smell of tobacco,” and then he wondered why Pauline had 
given him the impression that Miss Bossiter had retired to 
rest. “ Unless my eyes deceived me she was still in her black 
lace dress,” he said to himself ; “ well, I will make her tell 
me all about it to-morrow,” and then he roused himself for 
one of those scholarly discussions in which the soul of Mr. 
Thorpe delighted, but this evening he was scarcely as brilliant 
as usual. “To-morrow I will set the seal to my fate !” was 
his last thought that night before drowsiness overcame him ; 
but, alas ! circumstances did not favor this resolve. 


108 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


To his chagrin, Launcelot found, on opening his letters the 
next morning, that important trustee business summoned him 
to Cornwall, where he was likely to be detained for several 
days, and that it would be necessary for him to start that very 
evening. 

“And I must go up to town by the 12.15 train, he said, 
with an annoyed air, “ for I must see Fortescue and Burroughs 
about two or three things ; it is an awful nuisance. 

“ I am so sorry, Launce,^^ returned Mrs. Chudleigh, in a 
sympathizing voice. “It is hard for you to have that long 
jourhey and all that trouble on other people^s account. 

“ Oh, I am getting lazy,^^ he replied, with an effort to speak 
brightly. “ By the bye, Madella, how is Miss Bossiter this 
morning ?” 

“Not very well, I am afraid ; her head is still bad, and 
Pauline has persuaded her to lie down again. I shall go up 
to her presently when you are gone.^^ 

“Will you tell her how sorry I am to hear of her indispo- 
sition?^^ he said, rising and walking to the window. “And, 
Madella 

“Well, dear?»» 

“ If she does not get better you will send for Egerton.^^ 

“Certainly, Launce. You need not be afraid; your poor 
father always said I was always too ready to send for a 
doctor.^' 

“It is generally wise to do so, and so many things begin 
with a headache, returned Launcelot, — a speech which did 
not conduce to his step-mother^ s peace of mind, for, like many 
kind-hearted people, she was rather nervous about illness, 
though she could be an excellent nurse and had plenty or 
presence of mind on emergencies. 

But Launcelot^s heart felt scarcely as light as usual as he 
saw the walls of the Witchens receding from his view; and as 
he looked out at the flying hedgerows in the moonlight that 
night, his thoughts recurred persistently to the wide-strained 
eyes and pale face that had startled him the preceding evening. 

“It must have been a nervous attack, he thought, un- 
easily ; “ that flxed miserable look could hardly proceed from 
a headache. And then he fell into a troubled doze and 
dreamed that the Witchens was on Are, and that Miss Bossiter 
stood at an upper window wringing her hands. “No one can 
save me he heard her say. “It is my own fault. No one 
else is to blame ; it is only fate and then she disappeared in 
the flames, and with a groan of horror he woke. 


IS NOT TREATING US WELL.^* 




CHAPTER XXI. 

“SHE IS NOT TREATING US WELL.” 

“ I hope your present cause of distress is not so bad but It may be re- 
moved.”— TTic Antiquary, 

“I love not mystery or doubt.”— i2oA;e6y. 

Never had the days seemed more irksome to Launcelot 
than those he spent in the old house on the Cornish coast, set- 
tling the affairs of a semi-imbecile minor, with his co-trustee, 
a relative of the afflicted lad, and trying to smooth matters for 
the harassed widow. 

With his wonted energy he threw himself heart and soul 
into the duties of the present hour, saw the various tutors who 
applied for the post, studied references, and finally engaged 
one who he thought would combine firmness with tact, and 
who would be likely to restrain the fits of passion to which 
the poor young heir was liable ; and as soon as things were on 
a proper footing, and he could conscientiously free himself, he 
set his face homeward, and counted the hours with boyish 
impatience, as though the long journey would never be at an 
end. 

All this time a curious heimweh and a vague sense of trouble 
had kept him restless. He had never longed so much to be at 
home. Every delay fretted him ; he felt almost like a school- 
boy when he saw his luggage put on the wagonette that was 
to take him to the station. 

He had heard twice from Mrs. Chudleigh ; but though her 
letters were as thoughtful and appreciative as ever, for the first 
time they failed to satisfy him ; they seemed to tell him every- 
thing but what he most wished to know. She scarcely men- 
tioned Miss Rossi ter, and then only very briefiy. “ I am sorry 
to say that Miss Rossiter is still very far from well ; indeed, 
Pauline and I think she looks extremely ill ; but she is very 
impracticable and refuses to see a doctor, so we are obliged to 
leave her alone.” 

And the second letter was still more unsatisfactory. 

“ Miss Rossiter is better, but she seems very low-spirited and 
unlike herself. Dossie tells Pauline that she is always crying ; 
but she will tell none of us what ails her. She only seems 
annoyed if we notice anything is amiss.” 

“ There is something troubling her ; but I mean to convince 
her that her trouble is mine too,” thought Launcelot, as he 
leaned back against the cushions, and looked out dreamily at 
the wide stretch of country. “ I suppose it was that picture 
that did the mischief, for I never knew how hardly T was hit 
until then. I wonder what Madella will say when I tell her? 

H 15 


170 


m^aji the GOVEttl^EasS, 


She does not guess, I believe. And then his heart seemed to 
give a great throb. Would he be able to speak to her before a 
few hours were over? Would she listen to him patiently? 
And what sort of answer would there be for him in those 
beautiful frank eyes ? 

He reached London the next morning : but, as he had a 
business interview impending in Lincoln’s Inn, he breakfasted 
and dined at his club, and it was not until late in the evening 
that his hansom drew up to the Witchens. 

“After all, there is no place like home,” he thought, as he 
handed the cabman his fare ; and, indeed, on that July even- 
ing, the Witchens looked a pleasant abode. A cool summer 
breeze was blowing across Brentwood common, rippling the 
leaves of the trees. He knew they would all be gathered on 
the terrace to watch the sunset. As he drove in at the gate he 
could see the red glow behind the beeches and firs in Colonel 
Madison’s little plantation. He could easily have let himself 
in at the green door in the wall, and joined them ; only the 
>ther evening they had all been there, leaning on the low wall, 
and talking in eager undertones of Italian sunsets. 

“But I like our English ones best,” Pauline had said 
“there is nothing like En^and.” And she had persisted in 
this opinion in spite of all Bee’s arguments to the contrary. 

Yes, of course they were all there. Nevertheless he walked 
straight into the drawing-room, and found to his surprise that 
his step-mother was sitting alone reading in her favorite chair 
by the window, that overlooked the great cedar. 

She gave a little exclamation of pleasure when she saw 
Launcelot. 

“Well,” he said, bending over her affectionately, “have 
you waited here for me? I suppose the others are on the 
terrace as usual.” 

“Yes, dear; but I soon left them, for I thought you might 
arrive tired, and there would be no one to speak to you. We 
did not wait dinner, Launce, because you said things were to 
be as usual ; and I know how you dislike any fuss.” 

“You are quite right, Madella, and I have already dined 
sumptuously at my club. Fawcett dined with me.” And then 
he briefly sketched the outline of his day’s business, his in- 
terview at Lincoln’s Inn, the letters he had written, and the 
calls he had ^aid ; but all the time he talked his eyes were 
fixed on the shrubbery path that led to the rosiery and the 
terrace. 

“ I think it is no wonder you are tired, Launce,” observed 
his step-mother, quietly. “ You have done two days’ work in 
one, and after travelling all night, too.” 

“ But I am not the least tired,” he returned ; “ so you may 
tell me all your news. Your letters were far too short.” 

“Were they?” she replied; but she looked a little em- 
barrassed. “ I did not want to trouble you about home 
worries when you had all that tiresome business to settle. 


^^SHE IS NOT TREATING US WELL^^ 


171 


Do you think that poor boy will ever be able to manage his own 
affairs?” But Launcelot shook his head in answer to this. 

I doubt if he will live many years ; but one never knows 
the end of these cases. His poor mother frets dreadfully 
about him, I think I have got the right man for him. 
Colonel Underleigh was much pleased with my choice. We 
can afford liberal terms, but we must have the right sort of 
fellow. Gerard needs a firm hand.” 

** It is a dreadful responsibility for you, Launce. I wondei 
you ever undertook it.*^ 

“How could I refuse? Such an old friend, too. Never 
mind, Madella; my shoulders are broad enough for any 
amount of burthens. Now tell me, what has been worrying 
you?” in a coaxing voice. 

’ “ Oh, Launce, not to-night. Worries of that sort will keep; 
and, in spite of all you say, you must be tired.” 

“ Very well, then you shall order me a cup of coffee,” and as 
she rang the bell and gave the order, delighted to do anything 
for her boy^s comfort, he turned his face to the window a 
moment, and a swift un definable expression passed over it, 
blotting out its brightness, but as she took her seat beside 
him again, he said very quietly, “Now you must tell me; 
of course, i know it is about Miss Rossi ter.” 

“How could you guess that?” she returned, with some 
surprise ; but he only smiled faintly, and said, “ Tell me all 
about it.” 

And she began at once, only too thankful to share her 
perplexities with her young adviser. 

“She is not treating us well, Launcelot,” she complained. 
“You know how fond we all are of her ; indeed, if she were 
my own daughter I could hardly have done more for her.” 

“No indeed, — she is always speaking of your goodness to 
her.” 

“We have never had a jarring word ; she has been as docile 
and easy to be managed as a child, and so kind-hearted. 
Even Bee says how much improved Sybil is, and how wise 
and kind Miss Rossiter is in her school-room discipline. The 
children are so perfectly happy with her ; dear little Dossie is 
always telling me how much she loves her, and now she says 
she must leave us, that she cannot possibly stay with us any 
longer.” 

“Madella!” but Launcelot was capable of no other word. 
Whatever he had expected to hear, it was not this. The 
Witchens without Miss Rossiter ! The mere thought seemed 
to hurt him physically and take away his breath. 

“ Did you ever hear of such a thing, — to leave us without 
a vestige of excuse, for I cannot get her to tell me her reason ; 
she only cries as though her heart will break, and says that 
it is not caprice, but that she must go, and yet in the same 
breath she says that she has never been so happy anywhere 
else.” 


172 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


“ Aud she will not tell you her reason 
“ No ; she only sobs and goes on in the most trying way,— 
neither Pauline nor I can get her to speak ; she really makes 
me quite ill, Launcelot. I can do nothing with her. She 
actually wants to leave us at once, which is treating me very 
badly, and throwing the little girls on my hands, and yet 
seems to have no definite plans, and is quite friendless. 

A dark fiush crossed Launcelot^s brow. “ Does she say so, 
Madella?^' 

Yes ; she said more than once that she had not a friend in 
the world, except us.^^ 

“ Oh, I am glad she did us that justice. 

Yes, indeed, I do believe she loves us all, but that makes 
it all the more extraordinary for her to leave us. I do not 
know what to think. Has any one been speaking to her? I 
mean— do you imagine — but here Mrs. Chudleigh broke 
down, for it seemed sacrilege even to hint that Miss Kossiter 
should have met with any annoyance under that roof : and 
if a dim suspicion of the truth had lately visited her, her un- 
bounded trust and confidence in her boy would have kept her 
silent, — the king could do no wrong, and Launcelot was a 
king in her eyes, — no, it was not for her to hint at such things. 
“ I do not know what to think, she finished, helplessly. 

‘‘Will you tell me a little more? I must get to the bottom 
of this. When did Miss Rossi ter tell you she must go?^^ 

“ Yesterday — no, the day before. I have been so worried, I 
can scarcely remember things. At first we thought she was 
ill, and begged her to see a doctor. She did not eat properly, 
and I am sure from her looks that she did not sleep either, 
and then Dossie told us she woke in the night and heard her 
sobbing. Dossie went to her once, and got into her bed and 
begged her not to cry ; and Miss Rossiter clung to her, and 
would not let her go. Dossie says she put her to sleep at last, 
stroking her hand as she used to stroke her father^ s.^^ 

“Go on,^’ observed Launcelot, rather hoarsely, and he pre- 
tended to stir his coffee. 

“Well, I spoke to her very seriously, and so did Pauline. 
I told her that it was my wish that she should see Mr. Eger- 
ton, but she would not listen to reason ; she persisted in say- 
ing that she was not really ill, only nervous. I was almost 
angry with her at last, but even then she was not shaken. 
“Well?'» 

“Oh, I thought it best to leave her alone after that. I 
believe I did not even see her the next day, and on Thursday 
morning as I was doing some accounts in the morning-room 
she came in and said she must speak to me. I thought her 
manner strange. She looked very pale and excited, and then 
without a word of explanation she said very quickly just what 
I have told you, that we must not think her ungrateful for all 
our kindness, but she had made up her mind to leave the 
Witchens ; that she could not stay any longer, and that T 


^^SHE IS NOT TREATING US WELL^ 


178 


must find another governess for Dossie and Sybil,— at least it 
was to this effect, for I cannot remember her exact words. 

“And what was your answer, Madella?^^ 

“ Well, Launce, of course I was excessively hurt, and I let 
her see it, — it was so utterly unexpected ; but at my first re- 
proachful word she broke down, and then, as I said, it was 
very trying. She was at my feet in a moment, kissing my 
hands in her impulsive way and saying how she loved us all, 
and what a dear house it had been to her, and that it nearly 
broke her heart to leave us, but that she must go ; it was her 
duty, and nothing could keep her ; and then Pauline came in, 
and matters only grew worse, and she was so hysterical at last 
that- we dared not say another word.” 

“And this was on Monday?” 

“Yes, and I have not spoken to her since, but last night 
she sent me a little note by Pauline. Pauline is so good to 
her ; she is terribly grieved about it all, but she will not let 
me say a word against Miss Rossiter. She declares that some 
trouble must have come to her ; that we never found her un- 
reasonable or wanting in good sense, and that we must wait 
for your return. ‘ Launce will know how to talk to her 
mother,^ she said, more than once.” 

“ Pauline is a sensible girl. May I see that note, Madella?^ 
and Mrs. Chudleigh handed it to him at once. 

“ My dearest Mrs. Chudleigh,” it began, “ I think the 
hardest part of all is to know that you are accusing me of in- 
gratitude in your heart. Alas ! I could read that thought in 
your eyes. Yes, you who have been like a mother to me, — 
you whom I have loved and reverenced above every other 
woman, — you think that I am acting unkindly and in caprice. 
Will you try to believe me when I tell you this is not the case, 
that necessity conypels me to leave you, though I cannot tell 
you the reason ? You have given me the dearest home I have 
ever known ; you have made me one of yourselves and treated 
me with kindness. How could anything but necessity, there- 
fore, justify so rash an act? 

“Iso, my dearest and best friend, believe that I am telling 
you the plain, unvarnished truth when I say I must leave 
you. I must ; yes, though the pain of bidding you all good- 
by threatens to break my heart. But do not let me go unfor- 
given ; let me have at least the poor consolation of feeling I 
am believed, and in some measure trusted. I think if you 
could read my heart — but God only can do that — you would 
pity me, and there would be no misunderstanding then. 

“ Yours most gratefully, 

“Huldah Rossiter.” 

“ Well, Launcelot ?” for he still sat silent with his eyes 
fixed on the signature, “what do you gather from that poor 
girPs letter?” 

“ That we have no right to accuse her of any ingratitude.” 

“ You mean that she is unhappy ?” 


174 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


“ Yes,^’ he returned, briefly, “ she is very unhappy.^^ 

“ It is very strange. 

“All mysteries are strange, and this is at present a mystery 
to us, Madella. I shall speak to her to-morrow and ask her to 
remain. 

“You?'» 

“Yes, I but as she looked timidly and doubtfully in his 
face he said, quickly, — 

“They are coming off the terrace ; I hear Geoffrey^s voice. 
I cannot explain now, but somehow I fancy we understand 
each other. In whatever way I act promise me you will not 
be vexed with me, Madella?” 

“No,” she returned, gently, “ I shall not be vexed.” But 
it may be doubted if she really comprehended his meaning 
Vexed with Launcelot ! Had she ever been angry with him 
in her life? Were not all his actions good and sound in her 
eyes? 

“Thank you,” he said, pressing her hand; and then he 
went outside in the dusky light and greeted his sister and 
Geoffrey. The first glance showed him Miss Rossiter was not 
of the party ; but he took no apparent notice of this fact until 
Pauline drew him aside. 

“You have heard about Huldah, Launce ?” 

“ Yes ; Madella has been telling me.” 

“ Poor mother ! it has been such a worry to her. I was 
afraid it would make her quite ill. We cannot understand 
Huldah at all. Every moment she contradicts herself ; and 
yet we can see how unhappy she is.” 

“I don’t think I care to talk about it, Paul.” Then Pau- 
line knew from her brother’s manner that she had better 
say no more, and shortly afterwards Launcelot said he was 
tired and would go to bed. 

But in spite of his fatigue it was long before he slept. All 
sorts of harassing conjectures drove slumber from his eyes. 
Had she guessed anything from his manner lately? had it 
been less guarded and friendly than usual? had she taken 
alarm at the notion that she had found favor in the eyes of 
the master of the house ? But no ; the most rigid self-exami- 
nation exonerated him from any imprudence of this sort. 
The most sensitive and prudish woman would not have felt 
herself offended by such gentle, kindly attentions. No ; it 
could not be this that was driving her so reluctantly from 
their roof. It must be then that some sudden trouble had 
overtaken her. And again he thought, and this time with a 
conscious shudder, of those fixed, miserable eyes, in which 
lay the shadow of some terror or unexpected sorrow. It was 
this trouble he was resolved to share, this mystery he de- 
termined to solve : and with this resolution he at last fell 
asleep. 

The next morning he heard from Pauline that the children 
were learning their lessons as usual. So he shut himself in 


^^SHE IS NOT TREATING US WELL.^^ 


176 


liis studio on the pretence of work : but he did not even un- 
cover his picture. He wrote a few business letters, sorted and 
tore up an accumulation of papers on his writing-table, and 
that was all. 

Miss Rossiter made her appearance at luncheon. Somehow 
he had not expected to see her there ; but he suppressed his 
feelings and shook hands with her quietly. 

She did not raise her eyes or speak to him, but passed 
][uickly to her seat, and busied herself in attending to the 
children's wants. 

It was long before he dared to steal a glance in her direc- 
tion ; but when at last he did so the change in her appear- 
ance filled him with dismay. 

She certainly looked very ill. A sort of dimness had crept 
over her beauty ; a dejection and paleness that filled him with 

had become of her pure and radiant bloom? the 
light silvery laughter that had always been so musical in his 
ears? the bright, quaint speeches that had enlivened the 
meals? He had never seen her sit there before silent, and 
quenched and spiritless, speaking to no one, never raising her 
eyes ; and yet he could not address her. 

It was a blessing that Bee was more than usually talkative. 
She was full of an expected treat that afternoon. The Ham- 
blyns had had a box at the Albert Hall offered them ; an un- 
usually attractive concert was to take place that evening, and 
Nora had written to invite both her and Pauline. They were 
to remain the night, and Lady Hamblyn had promised to 
drive them home the following afternoon. Geoffrey would 
be there too, and sleep in town. 

“It is a very good concert: Christine Nilsson is to sing,^' 
observed Pauline, who was evidently trying to get up an en- 
thusiasm ; but her remark fell rather fiat. 

“Should you like me to take the children for a drive?^^ ob- 
served Mrs. Chudleigh in a low tone to Miss Rossiter ; but 
Launcelot heard every word. “ I was thinking of going into 
town, and the shops always please them, and you may be 
glad of the rest this afternoon. 

“Thank you — you are very good,^^ she returned, in a meas- 
ured voice. “You will like that, will you not, my dears ?^^ 
and there was an ecstatic response from Sybil and Dossie, and 
then the party broke up. 

Launcelot took his paper to the studio window ; his sisters 
came in presently and wished him good-by, and Pauline 
looked at him a little wistfully. “Poor little girl, she won- 
ders why I do not talk to her about her friend, he thought, 
and then he heard the children's voices, as they drove off for 
a delightful afternoon of shopping and bustle. 

The house felt very silent ; only he and Miss Rossiter were 
in it. He was just pondering whether he might venture to 
go up into the school-room, or whether he should send her a 


176 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


message, when to his relief he saw her slowly crossing the 
lawn in the direction of the shrubbery, and at once made up 
his mind to follow her. 

It was an intensely hot July afternoon ; scarcely a leaf 
rustled, and only the white butterflies seemed to enjoy the 
cloudless sunshine, but he knew that in the shrubbery there 
would be shade. There were pleasant seats there under striped 
awnings, and in one of the trees they had slung a hammock ; 
below, the common would stretch burnt and brown in the 
sultry glare, but in the winding walk there would be coolness 
and shade, and he would be able to speak to her, too, without 
interruption. 

He found her seated under one of the awnings ; Dossiers 
pug pujmy was curled up in the draperies of her pale pink 
gown, ohe had her sunshade up and did not see him, and 
was evidently so absorbed in her own thoughts that even his 
footsteps were unheeded ; he almost feared to startle her too 
abruptly when he addressed her by name. 

^‘How comfortable and cool you look. Miss Rossiter V' but 
as she lowered her sunshade with a faint expression of sur- 
prise, he saw at once that she was not pleased to see him. 

“ I thought you had gone with the others, Mr. Chudleigh,^^ 
she said ; and there was marked embarrassment and a little 
annoyance visible in her manner. “ I thought Beppo and I 
had the place to ourselves.^* 

‘‘And you are disappointed at finding your quiet invaded? 
You are not in a talking mood, and you would have preferred 
your own society? I am sorry for that, for^^ — looking at her 
steadily — “ I have come here for the express purpose of talk- 
ing to you.^' 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“I CAN HELP YOU, HULDAH.^^ 

“He writhed— then sternly manned his heart 
To play his hard but destined part.” 

Lord of the Isles, 

Miss Rossiter made no reply to this, but Launcelot heard 
a faint sigh of intense weariness, and he noticed that the hand 
that supported the sunshade trembled slightly, but there was 
no further protest on her part. She had no right to send the 
master of the house away, however irksome his presence 
might be to her, but neither would she offer him the least 
encouragement to remain ; so she did not draw away her 
dress to make room for him on the seat. Launcelot took no 
notice of this, however. There was a low stump of a tree just 
by, on which he seated himself ; the position was convenient. 


GAN HELP YOU, HULDAH.^^ 


177 


as he could see her face plainly. He was soon sensible that 
this arrangement embarrassed the young governess ; she 
glanced at him uneasily, and then looked away. 

“Miss Rossiter,^’ he began, quietly, and no one but he him- 
self knew how unevenly his heart was beating, “of course I 
have heard everything from Madella. She tells me that you 
have made up your mind to leave ua.^' 

She bowed her head at this, as though speech were difficult, 
and Launcelot went on in the same smooth, even voice. 

“You are unwilling to remain any longer as SybiPs govern- 
ess. Will you answer me one question frankly? Has any 
one in this house given you any just cause for complaint 

“No — no she returned, eagerly, and her eyes filled with 
tears. “You have only been too good to me, every one of you. 
I have never met with such kindness in my life.^^ 

“ That is well ; then it is no fault of ours that is driving you 
away, and yet something has happened, — I can see by your 
face that you are in trouble.’^ 

“I am in great trouble,” was the unexpected answer ; and 
then a little wildly, “but no one can help me, no one — no 
one !” 

“Are you so sure of that?” he returned, gently. “What 
if I tell you that your trouble is mine, and that I ask no 
higher privilege than to be allowed to share it?” 

“ But you cannot share it,” with evident misunderstanding 
of his meaning. “ I can never tell my trouble to any one ; 
what would be the use, when no one living could help me?” 

“ I can help you, Huldah. As surely as I have loved you 
from the first minute I ever saw your dear face, so — ” 

But with a cry that sounded like an exclamation of horror, 
she caught him by the arm, and with whitening lips prayed 
him to stop. 

“Why should I stop, my dearest?” — and no woman could 
have mistaken the meaning of his look, and indeed no living 
woman had ever seen those gray eyes dark and vivid with in- 
tense feeling, — “why should I not tell you the truth?” Then 
she shrank away from him and covered up her face, and he 
heard her say, amidst her wild weeping, that he must never 
speak to her in that way again, for she could never be his 
dearest — never-never ; and he must not love her, and then 
her voice was choked with sobs. 

Launcelot grew a little pale, but his hand closed firmly upon 
a fold of her gown as though he feared she might leave him 
but his voice was as gentle as ever. 

“ Why may I not love you, dear ?” 

“Because — because, — oh, I am a wicked girl, but I never 
meant this ! I never dreamed of this ! God knows I would not 
have been so wicked. Mr. Chudleigh,” — hardly able to bring 
out her words, and he could see how her poor throat swelled, — 
“ if it would Qo any good I would beg your forgiveness on my 
knees for causing you this pain, but you are so good and true 
m 


178 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


that you will soon get over your feeling for such a miserable 
creature, for I am not — I am not what you think me.^^ 

“I cannot help that,^^ he answered, doggedly, and the set 
purpose of his tone seemed to frighten her ; “ whatever you 
are, I cannot help loving you, and I must go on loving you all 
my life.^^ 

“No— no she almost shrieked, and she pushed his hand 
away, “ do not touch me ! — do not say anything like that 
again ! Oh, I have deceived you cruelly, but I never thought 
of this ; God knows such a thought never came into my 
mind until the other day, and then I knew I must go. Mr. 
Chudleigh, neither you nor any other man must speak to me 
of love, for I am the wife of a good man, — the unhappy wife, 
it is true — but still I am a married woman. 

For one moment Launcelot shut his teeth hard, as though 
he were in mortal agony ; his whole frame seemed to quiver 
as though he had received a blow, and then with the intense 
force of his will he drove back all feeling of his own personal 
pain, and though there was a gray tint on his face, and a curi- 
ous coldness and numbness in the region of his heart, he com- 
pelled himself to think only of her. 

“ It is for me to beg your pardon, although^ ^ — with a pathetic 
attempt at a smile — “ I have done no moral wrong, for I could 
not know — how could I ? — that such feelings would be an of- 
fence to you. Try to forget what I have just said, and con- 
sider me your friend. We^’ — with a catch of his breath — 
“have always been friends, and I wish to help you. You 
have a husband, you say ; will you tell me his name ?” 

“ If you wish it.” 

But Defore she could bring it out, Launcelot sprang from 
his seat as though he had been shot. 

“No, donT tell me, I know it — let me tell you instead— you 
are not Huldah Rossiter — you are Joan — Ivan Thorpe’s wife I 
I know it — I am sure of it ; oh, my God !” 

And here he sat down giddily, and for a little while there 
was a bitter flood of thoughts that choked the man’s speech, 
while the woman, humbled and guilty, sat at his side ana 
w^t until she had no tears left. 

But it was she who spoke first. 

“ How di(Lyou know it was Ivan?” she whispered. 

Then Launcelot roused himself, and with an inward prayer 
for strength and self-control, answered her gently : 

“ The Sruth flashed on me as I spoke. I remembered your 
face that evening — when he came ; you have never been the 
same since. Ivan is my friend, my dear friend ; there is no 
man dearer to me. I saved his life once, — surely you owe it 
to me to tell me the whole truth.” 

“I owe you more than that,” she answered, humbly; “I 
will tell you everything. I will answer any question you wish, 
if you will only forgive me, and not hate me for my deceit. 
There is nothing I will not do to show my penitence. Oh, I 


CAN HELP YOU, HVLDAHy 


176 


am so miserable ; I never meant to be so wicked. I was not 
a bad girl ; it was only I did not like being married. 

“ Wait a moment before you explain things. Give me your 
hand. I will promise to forgive you if you on your side will 
promise something in return. Give me the right as your hus- 
band^s friend to help you in this crisis of your life to the ut- 
most of my power, as though^ ^ — here his voice shook a little 
— “ as though I were your brother. 

The generosity of this speech made her tears flow again, but 
she gave him her hand at once. 

“ Oh, how good you are ! you make me more than ever 
ashamed of myself. I never had a brother — yes, you shall help 
I will try to follow your advice. I can trust you wholly.^ ^ 

“ God forgive me if I ever forfeit that trust returned the 
young man, fervently, and the expression of his face made 
ner think of Nathanael, that Israelite without guile, and in- 
deed it seemed to Launcelot afterwards as though his agonized 
prayer for help had been heard, and his soul had received in- 
visible strength for that trying hour. Yes, though he knew 
that his fairest earrhly hope was quenched, — that the world 
would never look to him quite the same again; that the spring 
and buoyancy of his youth were broken within him, — he 
could still look at the woman who had deceived him with that 
gentle, pitying smile of full and free forgiveness. 

“ Now that is settled between us, and we are friends again ; 
and now you must tell me why you call yourself Huldah 
Rossi ter, and wish to pass for an unmarried girl.^^ 

“ My name is Huldah, she returned ; “Joan Huldah — but 
I was always called Joan. Oh, Mr. Chudleigh, you are so 
good yourself that you will not understand how a girl could 
be so wicked, but before you judge me think what it was for 
me to have no mother to guide me, and though my father was 
kind, he was not wise ; when I was passionate he only laughed 
at me, and gave me what I cried to possess, — and— and— 
though one does not like to say it of a parent, his example 
was not good, and when he died and I went to live with Aunt 
Kezia, there was no good influence for me there. 

“ Your aunt^s name was Mrs. Templeton, was it not 
“How did you know? — but of course Ivan or Rachel must 
have told you ; well, she is dead now, so I hardly like to speak 
of her faults, but poverty had soured her, and so perhaps she 
could not help making every one^s life round her miserable. 
She was a worldly, hard woman, and she could say and do 
cruel things ; she seemed to grudge me the bread t ate, and 
yet she would not let me go out and work. I was fond of 
children ; I loved teaching, and I wanted to be a governess, 
but nothing would induce her to listen to me. I only know 
my life was so unbearable at last that I thought I must run 
away, and then Ivan came, and he was kind to me, and then 
they both talked me into promising to marry him.^^ 

“ You did not love him ?” 


180 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


Launcelot never raised his eyes as he put this question. 

“No, it would not be true to say I loved him. Ivan knew 
I did not, for I never deceived him, but I liked him, and he 
was so kind to me, — oh, so kind ! and I was willing at last to 
marry him. I think,^^ with a faint blush, “ I was very near 
loving him by the time he took me home, he was so different 
so much nicer then.^^ 

“ You mean when you were alone together. 

“ Yes ; he never scolded and found fault with me then, my 
impulsive ways did not seem to jar upon him. Oh, Mr. Cliud- 
leigh, I am telling you the simple truth, as I should tell my 
brother if I had one, though I did not love Ivan as a married 
woman ought to love her husband, I was so grateful to him 
for caring for me and taking me out of my miserable life, that I 
tried with my whole heart to do my duty to him. I wanted 
to please him, I wanted to make him happy, but Rachel came 
between us.^^ 

“And yet Miss Thorpe is a good woman. 

“ So I thought, and I tried to be fond of her. I was fond 
of her at first, but good people have their faults ; from the 
first she was jealous of Ivan^s love for me. Oh, yes, I know 
what you are going to say, that she struggled against the feel- 
ing, but all the same it was too much for her. She had been 
everything to him once, and she could not forgive me for taking 
her place ; from the first she misunderstood and disliked me. 
Alas, my ways were not theirs ! You may pity them if you 
will and I shall not blame you, for they had enough to bear, 
but I was to be pitied too.^^ 

“I always knew that,^^ he answered, more to himself than 
to her, as she fixed her swollen eyes piteously on him. 

“If my life with Aunt Kezia had been wretched, my mar- 
ried life was intolerable. I had never learned reticence and 
self-control, and when Rachel spoke in her smooth, sarcastic 
voice, and exaggerated all my little short-comings, and Ivan 
gave me severe marital lectures, I lost my temper and got into 
what Rachel called my Irish rages, and so things went on 
from bad to worse ; I could please neither of them, and every 
day Ivan grew colder and sterner in his manner, 

“Yes, I understand,^^ for she had paused again. 

“I will not speak against him, for his sins are venial com- 

E ared to mine ; but if he had only been gentle with me, if he 
ad only treated me as a wife ought to have been treated, I 
would never have asked to leave him. I would have tried to 
bear my life though it was killing me, but he was bent on 
breaking my will. I was his wife and must submit ; he would 
not stoop to be tender over me. Rachel encouraged him in 
this firmness, and between them they nearly drove me mad.’^ 
“ Poor child, poor child 

“You can speak kindly to me even now?^^ and a fiush 

F assed over her wan face. “ Oh, why was not Ivan like you? 
was not incorrigibly bad, he could have won me by gentle* 


CAN HELP YOU, HULDAH'^ 


181 


ness. I tried as a last resource to plead with him, I reminded 
him that we had never misunderstood each other before 
Rachel came between us, and I begged him to find her an- 
other home. ‘ I will do all I can to replace her,^ I said ; ‘ I 
will try to learn your English ways and keep my temper.’ 
Oh, how angry he was ! He told me to my face that his sister, 
his poor faithful Rachel, should never be turned away from 
his roof while he had a crust to share with her, that she was a 
good woman and that I was not worthy to compare with her, 
that he was a fool to have been caught by my beauty, that 1 
made his life wretched, that he had never known an instant’s 
peace since he had married me ! Oh, for once Ivan was in a 
towering passion.” 

“ That was because he loved you, Mrs. Thorpe.” 

She winced at hearing her old name, and darted a reproach- 
ful glance at Launcelot. 

I never told you you might call me that. Oh, how quick 
you are ! I would rather you had called me Huldah, but 
never mind. Well, when Ivan said that, I told him he must 
choose between Rachel and me, that nothing would induce 
me to go on living in the way we were doing, that I should 
only hate him, that I was beginning to do so already, — oh, 
you can guess the rest. When I asked him to give me my 
liberty and let me go back to Aunt Kezia, he just bowed his 
head, and his face was as hard and impenetrable as this 
wood,” striking her hand on the seat, — “harder — like marble 
• -and so he let me go.” 

“Mrs. Thorpe, consider, could any generous man refuse to 
release you when you told him that living in his house was 
killing you? Most likely he hoped that in a little while 
you would see your duty in its right light and come back 
to him ; indeed, I know from his own lips that this is the 
case.” 

“Has he spoken of me to you? What has he said? But 
no, do not tell me yet ; let me be quick and finish. I had a 
nervous illness, and Aunt Kezia was frightened, and when I 
got better she let me take a place as companion to an invalid 
lady hving at Malvern ; she was very rich and had a beauti- 
ful place, and the change was good for me. I used to try to 
forget all about Ivan, only Rachel’s letters kept the wounds 
open. Oh, if you could only see those letters, dry, dogmatic, 
virtuous letters, with not a trace of sisterly or even kindly 
feehng in them ! They only widened the breach, they only 
made me exult in my freedom.” 

“Poor Miss Thorpe, she little thinks herself responsible for 
all this misery.” 

“ Ah, you take her part,” reproachfully. “ Men always do ; 
but she is hot a woman to be beloved by her own sex. She is 
too strong-minded, she has too little pity for weakness ; she 
has all Ivan’s hardness, but she is nDt capable of his gentle- 
ness. You are surprised at my using that word in connection 

16 


182 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


with my husband, but,^^ speaking very slowly, ** he was gentle 
at first, when he loved me.^^ 

“And he loves you still 

She shook her head vehemently. 

“No, no ! — a thousand times no ! Should I have pulled off 
my wedding-ring and called myself by another name if I had 
not known his love was dead, and I was only a hindrance and 
a burden? I had to thank Rachel for that knowledge.’^ 

“ Mrs. Thorpe, pardon me, I believe you are laboring under 
a delusion.” 

“And I tell you I am not! Can I doubt the evidence of 
my own eyesight ? Let me explain it more clearly. I had 
just heard of Aunt Kezia^s death, and the kind friend with 
whom I was living lay in her last illness ; my future was 
looking black enough, God knows, — and then Rachel’s letter, 
the last I have ever received from her, was put in my hands. 
It was a hard, cruel letter ; even you, who take her part, 
would own that. She upbraided me with being a false wife, 
for having taken vows I had no intention of fulfilling. She 
said that from that day forth she would have nothing more 
to do with me ; that I had forfeited Ivan’s love, and worn out 
his long patience. Oh, I cannot remember it all, but that 
was the gist of the whole, — that they were tired and sick of 
me.” 

“ Your sister-in-law had no right to interfere in the matter, 
but all the same you have misunderstood her meaning. She 
wrote under strong excitement.” 

“ It did its work, though. In a fit of passionate anger and 
despair I declared I would be Ivan’s wife no longer. The 
terms of our separation did not satisfy me. I was still under 
his control, he still sent me money from time to time, and no 
doubt it was by his wish that Rachel wrote to me. I de- 
termined in an evil moment, and quite heedless of conse- 
quences, that I would be free indeed. When Mrs. Selby died, 
leaving me a small legacy, I went to the Governesses Registry 
in Harley Street — we were in London then— and entered my- 
self on the books as Huldah Rossiter, my mother’s maiden 
name, and there I met your dear mother.’’ 

“ Good heavens ! do you mean to tell me that Madella took 
you without references?” and at this question a ghost of the 
old smile crossed the girl’s lips. 

“She was very easily contented; the fact is, we took a 
fancy to each other at the first moment. I told her I had 
been unfortunate ; that my benefactress was dead, and had 
left me a small legacy, but that I had no relation to speak for 
me, which was perfectly true. I also told her of Aunt Kezia’s 
death, which had thrown me on the world. She hesitated at 
first, but appointed a second interview, and when I saw her 
again she said, to my surprise, that it was all right ; a lady 
she knew well had been acquainted with Mrs. Selby, and had 
heard her speak with great affection of a young lady com- 


CAN HELP YOU, HULDAH.^^ 


i83 


panion. ‘To be sure,^ she continued, ‘my friend made one 
mistake, for she thought it was a young married lady, who 
had been separated from her husband ; but of course that 
must have been a mistake ; she must have meant you, my 
dear.^ 

“ ‘She certainly meant me,^ was my reply, and to my in- 
tense relief it was decided that I should come on trial as Sy- 
biPs governess. I told Mrs. Chudleigh that I had never had 
a pupil before, but it appears she and Bee v/ere much taken 
with my playing and singing, and my French accent was 
declared very satisfactory.^^ 

“Oh, Madella, Madella,^^ sighed Launcelot, but he spoke 
only to himself. 

“ And now you know all the rest. Oh, how happy you all 
made me ! There were times when I forgot Ivan, and felt as 
though I were a child again. Do not look at me in that way, 
Mr. Chudleigh ; indeed, they were both happier without me, 
— they had each other. Ivan and his faithful Rachel, — and 
here she laughed a little hysterically — “and I — I had my 
freedom. 

“And a remorseful conscience to balance it.’^ 

“No, you must not say that ; my conscience has not often 
troubled me — only now and then — at the dance, perhaps.’^ 

“And why at the dance turning quickly round and fix- 
ing a searching look on her face ; but though her color rose 
under it, she would not answer. How could she tell him of 
the womanly instinct that had warned her the moment he 
had looked at her with those loving gray eyes as he put his 
arm round her in the valse, that she was playing a dangerous 
game of which evil might come ? 

“Oh,^^ she said, evading this, “you cannot think what a 
terrible moment that was to me when I looked out of the 

f assage window and saw my husband crossing the courtyard. 

f I had not drawn back instantly he must have seen me, 
for he looked up, and then our eyes would have met ; that 
would have killed me with a shudder. 

“Forgive me for interrupting you, but I must ask you 
another question. How is it Dossie never spoke to you of the 
Thorpes?” 

“They did not seem to make much impression on her. She 
did speak of them once or twice ; but the name is not an un- 
common one. When I left my husband he was living at Sut- 
ton, and I never connected the Thorpes of Riversleigh with 
him and Rachel. I do not remember that Dossie even men- 
tioned Miss Thorpe, only she spoke of a Mr. Thorpe who was 
a nice man, and played with her. I think she said he was 
quite old but here she hesitated and turned away. “ I 
think, — that is, I thought, — Ivan did look much older.” 

“No doubt, trouble has aged him. Whatever you may 
believe, Mrs. Thorpe, your desertion has nearly broken his 
heart. A more lonely man does not live than Ivan Thorpe.” 


184 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


She started, and her face worked with some strong emotion ; 
but the next moment she controlled herself. 

I think it is you who make a mistake now,^^ she returned, 
very quietly. “ Ivan is not the man to feel lonely ; besides, he 
has Bachel.^^ 

“ A sister is not like a wife. Why will you not believe me ? 
I know your husband well. He has never ceased to love you, 
and in spite of his anger he wants you back.^^ 

“ But not now, Mr. Chudleigh. You forget ; if you know 
Ivan, you know him to be a man of narrow views and rigid 
on all points of honor. Is such an one likely to forgive 
a woman who has thrown off her responsibilities and has 
passed in society as an unmarried girl?” 

“He will find it difficult to forgive, certainly. No doubt 
his anger will be bitter and hard to bear, but if you are 
patient and humble yourself ” 

“I humble myself!”— and here he saw all her beauty 
change, and her eyes flash with scorn, but before she could 
say more he took her hands and held them tightly. 

“Never mind all that. You want to be good, I am sure 
you do, and Madella and I will help you ; only trust us, and 
do not fear to follow our advice. You are not a coward : you 
know when people do wrong they deserve to suffer, and you 
have done very wrong, for you have sinned against the 
truth.” 

“ Yes, I have done very wrong,” — and at that gentle rebuke 
all her pride fell from her, — “ but I did not mean to be wicked. 
I only wanted my freedom.” 

“You cannot have that unless God thinks fit to take your 
husband ; no human power can free you from those solemn 
vows, which it is now your duty to fulfil. No, do not let us 
argue ; you are exhausted, and I can talk no more. Remem- 
ber your agreement: you have accepted us as your friends 
and guardians. Under our roof you are safe ; rest quietly and 
think over what I have said, and leave everything else in my 
hands. I will talk to Madella and to your husband.” 

“ Oh, no I no I Not my husband I You will not be so 
cruel !” 

* You do not know how cruel I can be. I mean to be cruel 
fir your own good. I mean, God helping, to make you a 
happy woman in spite of yourself ; surely you can trust me?” 

“ Do not tell Ivan,” she whispered ; but he only looked at 
her with a grave smile. 

“May I not^go away first?” but he shook his head at this 
childish speech. 

“Where would you go, my poor child? Do you suppose 
other women would be so foolish as Madella, and take you 
into their homes ? No, promise me faithfully that you will 
stay quietly here and obey us, — I mean obey Madella.” 

“Ah, I must promise, I suppose,” — in a despairing tone; 
“ the thought of going out in the world frightens me. I am 


UNDER MIDNIGHT SKIES. 


185 


not brave, I am a great coward. I am afraid of making mis- 
chief wherever I go. Oh, do you think Mrs. Chudleigh will 
keep me when she knows all? She is very sweet, very loving, 
but there are some things that good women find it hard to 
forgive. 

I think, he returned, steadily, “ that you will have much 
to bear ; in sowing the wind you must expect to reap the 
whirlwind. Madella will not be pleased, — in fact, she will be 
sadly ruffled. We must wait for her good heart to assert itself, 
and you must be patient. 

Shall you speak to her to-night 

“No, not to-night, and there was a muffled tone of exhaus- 
tion in Launcelot^s voice ; “ I must get my thoughts into shape 
first. I am going out. Will you tell Madella that I may pos- 
sibly sleep at my clu b if I am detained late ? Do not keep 
the house open after eleven. 

“You are going out, and you do not look well ; in fact, you 
look very ill.” 

“That is not of the smallest consequence, thank you,” 
rather curtly. “ Will you let me wish good-night now ?” and 
as she stood looking at him rather ruefully he took her hand 
and pressed it kindly, and then walked quickly through the 
shrubberies in the direction of the studio. 

But as each step took him farther from her, and the sound 
of her sad musical voice was no longer in his ear, a thick 
darkness seemed to settle upon his spirits, and those words of 
unutterable bitterness came to his recollection : 

“ Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life 
unto the bitter in soul, which long for death but it cometh 
not, and dig for it more than hid treasures, which rejoice 
exceedingly and are glad when they can find the grave ?” 

“They are grand words, and they seem to fit somehow,” 
thought Launcelot, as he sat down wearily in his place. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

UNDER MIDNIGHT SKIES. 

“He forgot himself where he could be of use to others.”— S cott. 

“Something there yet remains for me in this world, were it only to 
bear my sorrows like a man and to aid those who need my assistance.”— 
Anon, 

In all the days of his happy, vigorous life Launcelot had 
never passed such an hour as that after he had closed the 
studio door and sat down to look his trouble in the face. 

The severe tension, the almost intolerable strain during that 
long conversation, had tried his powers of endurance to the 
utmost, and utter collapse of all mental effort was the result 

16 * 


186 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


For a long time he could only sit there holding his head in his 
hands, and asking himself with a sort of bewilderment of 
wonder why of all men such a thing should have happened 
to him. 

Hitherto he had compelled himself to think only of her, but 
now he had leisure to consider his own void and loss. It was 
not only the fact that the woman he so passionately Ipved 
could never be his wife, though that knowledge caused 
anguish to his manhood, but his faith had also suffered such 
shipwreck, so that for a little while he could only think what 
a miserable affair this life was, and what a poor thing human 
nature could be when the heavenly props had been removed. 

Launcelot was by no means blind to his own merits. He 
knew far better than others that his standard had been a 
higher one than that of most men. 

Intense self-respect had been his safeguard, and, in spite of 
the hot blood of youth, had carried him triumphantly through 
many a temptation. At one time of his life, in his undergrad- 
uate days, he had not been more thoughtful than other young 
men of his age ; but even then pride and a certain wholesome 
cleanliness of nature had left him straight. 

But the sense of his own uprightness and rectitude had not 
made him censorious. He was lenient to other men^s feelings, 
making allowances for the weakness of human nature. He 
never despised the youthful prodigals that he saw devouring 
husks and making believe to enjoy them. He only longed to 
show them the truer pleasure of the higher life. He knew 
himself to be happier than his fellows, because he had kept 
innocency and done the thing that was right. 

But though the broad level of his charity included all sorts 
and conditions of men, he was so far true to his own convic- 
tions that he would have his future wife as pure and perfect 
as an English girl should be. Susceptible as he was to beauty, 
he cared more that the inward shrine should be fair and well 
garnished. On this point he had ever been fastidious. 

You will never find a girl to suit you, Launce,*^ his step- 
mother had said to him, when he had been bewailing his 
bachelor condition, and narrating to her with much humor 
his two matrimonial attempts. “ Ah, it is all very well, tell- 
ing me about your fancy for Dora Rashleigh. She is a sweet 
girl, and thoroughly charming ; but if she had accepted you 
instead of Colonel Glynn, it would have been a short engage- 
ment. You never could have spent your life with a girl who 
had simply no mind.” 

I dare say you are right, Madella,” he answered, as though 
struck by the truth of this remark. “ But all the same, she 
was a dear little thing, and I was very fond of her.” 

“ I tell you what, Launce,” Bee said to him one day, when 
this subject was on the tapis and he had been airing a few of 
of his opinions, “you will never meet the girl you ‘want in 
society. You are very peculiar and Quixotic. I don^t believe 


UNDER MIDNIGHT SKIES. 


187 


you will ever marry unless you train your future wife from a 
child, and inoculate her with all your extraordinary notions.” 

‘‘ That is a good idea of yours,” returned Launcelot, coolly. 
“ What do you say, Madella? Could you find a pretty little 
orphan of gentle birth, and no undesirable relatives, who could 
be my pupil from a tender age ? I dare say Bee’s plan would 
work well, unless the orphan refused to marry me, and 
shunted me off for a younger fellow.” 

Ah, well, they had often made themselves very merry at 
his expense ; but now, as Launcelot sat reviewing his troubles 
gloomily, it did seem hard that he, of all men, should have 
met with such an experience, — that he, Launcelot Chudleigh, 
should have made love to a married woman, and she the wife 
of his dearest friend. No wonder the shock had staggered 
him. Innocent as he knew himself to be, the mere fact of the 
case sickened him. 

And then he wondered why there was no anger in his heart 
against Joan, but only a great pity and tenderness, and a long- 
ing to set her right with the world ; and he set himself to 
consider this, for it seemed to him a great problem, and he 
thought most men in his circumstances would have felt them- 
selves stirred to bitter wrath. 

And after a great deal of hard thinking which he carried 
forward on Brentwood common, — for the studio walls seemed 
to stifle him after a time, and fresh air had always been a 
necessity to him in unhappy moods, — he arrived at the con- 
viction that it was her childlike innocence that, in spite of 
her long deception, made her still so winning to him ; and 
though he would not own it to his conscience, he knew deep 
down in his heart that if she were only free he would gladly 
make her his wife still. But he shuffled off these thoughts 
hastily, and labelled them “Dangerous;” for strong men 
drown when the waves of passion rise high. 

He could see the scared, troubled look on her face as she 
pushed away his hand, — “Do not touch me; do not look at 
me in that way,”— -as though her wifely instincts had taken 
alarm ; and then he could hear the sad break in her voice, and 
see the childish quiver of her lip,— “ Oh, I am a wicked girl, 
but I never dreamed of this ! God knows I would not have 
been so wicked.” No, with all her foolishness and reckless- 
ness and blind disregard of duty, he knew that Ivan Thorpe 
could trust his wife. 

It had been her utter unconsciousness and fresh gayety that 
had won him first, and not her beauty. She had been so 
different from other girls ; so altogether charming. And then 
he thought, with a groan, of those sittings, and how he would 
look up from his easel and see the gleam of fun in the Irish 
gray eyes, and a little pout of the fresh lips that had answered 
one of his dry speeches. Oh, he had never met any one like 
her. And now she could be nothing to him, or he to her, 
until they met in that land “ where there shall be neither 


188 


ONLr THE GOVERNESS. 


marrying nor giving in marriage/^ and theirs should be the 
bright satisfaction of the angels of God. 

Shall I never get over it? And yet men always do,^^ he 
thought ; for all his bright spirit was quenched and hopeless, 
and the margin of the future looked dry and arid as a desert, 
and as yet the angelic visitant Hope had not offered her sweet 
ministry. By and by he would see the way to his duty and 
do it like a brave man for noblesse oblige^ but just now he was 
only weak enough to bemoan himseli like a sick girl. And 
yet, though he knew it not, his guardian angel held his hand 
firmly, for no good man ever suffers alone ; neither is the 
wounded warrior left in the midst of the battle to hew his 
way through the phalanx of his foes unaided. “If thou 
faint in the day of adversity thy strength is small, said the 
wise man. Launcelot's strength was only latent, having suf- 
fered temporary paralysis. 

He was conscious presently by the refreshing coolness of the 
air, and the absence of all glare, that the evening had come, 
and on looking at his watch was astonished to find that four 
hours had passed, and that it was eight o’clock. They were 
at dinner at the Witchens, and his message had been given; so 
for this one evening he was free, — free from his step-mother’s 
loving scrutiny, and the anxious questions that would follow. 

He had wandered a good way across the common, and was 
sitting on a bench underneath a May-tree ; all around him 
lay the open expanse of broken ground thick with gorse and 
blackberry-bushes, and towards the horizon was piled up a 
glory of sunset clouds. The solitude, the intense silence so 
healing to some natures, oppressed Launcelot even in his sor- 
row, and a longing for fellowship, for unspoken sympathy, 
even the sympathy of a dog, seemed to draw him to the focus 
and heart of life in the great hum of London ; to his active 
mind movement was irresistible, and he never thought more 
clearly and to the point than in a crowd. 

To London, therefore, he set his face, and as he walked with 
his head a little thrown back, and his eyes fixed wearily on 
the distance, people looked after him curiously, thinking that 
he was walking for a wager, for there was a set purpose in his 
face, and a gravity that might mean anything, from a lost 
lawsuit to a murder. 

He slackened his pace when he got to Piccadilly, for he be- 
came all at once conscious by his relaxed muscles that he was 
in need of food. Still the idea of dinner gave him a feeling 
of nausea thai there was no getting over ; so he went into a 
restaurant and had a couple of glasses of good claret and a 
roll, and this relieved his faintness and disposed him to re- 
newed exercise. 

The constant noise of vehicles, so far from fretting his 
nerves, seemed a sort of lullaby to his pain, and he was almost 
sorry when they ceased and'the silence of night settled down 
on the great metropolis. 


UNDER MIDNIGHT SKIES. 


189 


He did a great deal of hard thinking and laid up a store of 
valuable resolutions for future digestion as he walked through 
the West End, seeing many strange sights as he went. Now 
and then a block of foot-passengers coming out of a theatre 
door brought him to a standstill, and he leaned against a 
pillar and looked at the young and old faces that passed him, 
and thought how every one had his story, and wondered if 
any heart among them were as heavy as his. 

By and by he found himself on the Embankment, and sat 
down for a long time near Cleopatra^s Needle, looking across 
the dark river, and asking himself all manner of questions. 

But he was not tired yet, so he determined to make a night 
of it ; he had always promised himself that he would walk 
down the Whitechapel Road and Stepney towards the small 
hours of the morning, and when should he get such a chance 
again? So he shook himself into fresh energy, and started off. 

He had the great wide road almost to himself, though now 
and then he met a shuffling figure or two, or encountered a 
miserable group on a doorstep. As he passed the London 
Hospital some men carrying a rough sort of stretcher turned 
in at the gate, and he waited involuntarily to see the ghastly 
load lifted off it. 

“ It was one of them Lascars did it,^^ he heard one hulking 
fellow say to another. “ It is only that sort of breed that stabs 
a man in the back,^^ with a choice oath to follow. 

Launcelot stood for a long time looking up at the dark, mas- 
sive building. What suffering bodies and souls there must be 
within those walls. Hundreds lying in those great wards try- 
ing to court a few hours^ forgetfulness of their pain. ‘‘God 
bless the men and women who work there !” he thought, as 
he walked quietly on, and something gentle seemed to loose 
the tight band round his heart. 

After a time, when he had gone through the length and 
breadth of this eastern city of millions, and had been wrung 
with pity to know that even night has no rest for some, and 
that dark deeds are done in dark hours, when the prince of 
evil and his satellites hold high revel, he came presently to 
another bridge, and here the loneliness and the sight of the 
black, sullen river made him shiver and wish himself at home. 

He had just exchanged greetings with a policeman, who 
was glad to have a word with an honest man, and now, as he 
advanced toward the centre of the bridge, he became aware 
that a man in fustian clothes was standing with his back to 
him leaning against the parapet. 

Most men who carried a watch in their pocket would have 
been glad to have given him a wide berth in so lonely a spot, 
but Launcelot was not one of these. 

He passed close to the man, and perceiving utter dejection 
in his attitude, and not believing it, as half the world would 
have done, to be due to the influence of beer, he said, not 
cheerfully, for cheerfulness was not possible to him this even- 


190 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


ing, but kindly enough, ** Good-night ; you and I seem to have 
the bridge to ourselves. You must find it chilly standing 
there and then would have passed on, fearing the nature of 
his answer ; but the man turned slowly and heavily round, 
and the expression of his face, as the gaslight fell on it, made 
Launcelot keep his place. 

“ Yes, it is cold ; it will be colder by and by.^^ And then, 
in rather a dazed way, “ I never expected to hear any one bid 
me good-night again ; thank you, mate.^^ 

“ Have you no one belonging to you, then?” asked Launce- 
lot, quietly, resting his elbows on the parapet, with an evident 
intention of prolonging the conversation. The man looked a 
miserable object ; his fustian jacket was ragged, and his hag- 
gard, unshorn appearance was not much in his favor, but his 
voice had a country accent, and he spoke civilly enough. 

“ Oh, yes, I have my wife and the little uns,” he answered, 
in a limp sort of way, ‘‘but they will get on better without 
me. Look here, sir, — for I see you are a gentleman, — I was 
just about making up my mind to pitch myself over this ’ere 
bridge, and have done with the whole thing, when you comes 
along, and ‘Good-night,’ says you in a friendly tone, and 
somehow I don’t seem to have the stomach for the job now.” 

“Why, of course not, you would not be such a fool; no 
man in his senses would think of doing such a thing.” 

“ Perhaps I ain’t in my senses, then ; anyhow I ain’t been 
drinking, for neither bit nor sup, except a drop of cold water, 
has passed my lips this day ; but all the same, if it hadn’t 
been for that speech of yourn, I should have been a dead man 
by now.” 

“Then there would have been two of us ; for I should cer- 
tainly have jumped in after you, under the notion of saving 
you, and as I am hardly an average swimmer, we might 
neither have reached the bank alive.” 

“ Do you mean you would have troubled your head about 
me ? There are not many gentlefolks like you, I am think- 
ing ; most of ’em wouldn’t care a jot if a poor fellow chose to 
throw himself overboard.” 

“You are wrong there, hut we won’t argue about it ; you 
are down upon your luck, evidently. I fancy from your 
speech that you are from the country.” 

“ Ay, so I be, and I were a fool ever to come up to Lunnon ; 
I had tidy wages, and a wholesome place for the wife and 
little uns, but there we could not bide content. The missus 
she was alw^s worriting, and wanting to do better, and a 
smart s6rt of chap comes to our village, — ‘Go to Lunnon,’ 
says he, — ‘ Lunnon is the market for work,’ — so we just heark- 
ened to him and packed up our traps.” 

“ Oh, you made a mistake there. 

“ Don’t I know it, sir ?” ratner fiercely. “ If you ever meet 
such another fool on this sort of errand, tell him for God’s 
sake to bide where he is. ‘ Don’t come up to Lunnon, keep in 


UNDER MIDNIGHT SKIES. 


191 


your own village,^ say that to him. Why, we wouldn^t have 
kept a pig in the place they put my missus and me ; and as 
for worl^ why, I have pretty nigh gone on my knees for 
work—* There are too many of you already, and we can^t give 
employment to half,^ that is what they say. I tell you what, 
sir, I have sat down and cried hke a child, when the dock 
gate has been shut against me.^^ 

“Where are your wife and children to-night 

“They^ve took ^em in at the casual, because my missus 
looked baddish, and the baby too,— there are three of 'em, for 
we have buried four since we came up to Lunnon, and Sal — 
that is the eldest girl — has gone to the bad." 

“ And so you wanted to end your troubles, though in reality 
you would only have begun them, by laying a fresh burden on 
your wife?" 

* ‘ She will do better without me ; she would beg her way back 
to her own place, and get them to take her in at the house, — 
not that I would ever have thought of doing such a thing if I 
had not been pretty nearly starving — not a mouthful yesterday, 
and only a crust or two the day before ; and I was that desper- 
ate I wanted to steal a loaf from a baker's shop, just to get sent 
to jail and have a week of full meals, but somenow I could not 
do it." 

“ Thank God ! for that shows you to be an honest man ; and 
you must thank him, too, that you were saved from the sin of 
self-destruction. But, there, I can't preach to a starving man ; 
how soon do you think the world will be awake, and you and 
I can get some breakfast?" 

The man's hollow eyes brightened with a dim sort of light. 

“Betty Stone is the earliest, — she will be down at the docks 
in another hour or so, and she has prime coffee ; it is getting 
light already." 

“ So I see." 

Launcelot shivered slightly, for he felt not only the new 
day but a new phase of his existence had begun ; and yet, 
though he did not realize it, the deed of mercy had already 
marked it as a golden day in the annals of heaven. But the time 
had passed for brooding, and a sick feeling of exhaustion, as 
though nature were overstrained, made him sink on the stone 
bench and lay his head back against the parapet. He would 
rather have been silent, but a sense of duty made him rouse 
himself and draw from the man, who was not loath to tell him, 
the whole of his miserable story. 

“After all," thought Launcelot, presently, “what are my 
troubles compared to this poor fellow's? His sin has not been 
very heinous ; discontent and a wish to better his condition 
have brought him to this pass, and yet, like Esau, ‘ he finds no 
place for repentance.' He would willingly go back to his 
cottage and small wages, but the road is barred to him. This 
is one of the problems of the great citv, the overflow of people 
from the country, the over-stocked labor market, hungry men 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


praying for work, and yet. thank heaven, keeping their des^ 
perate hands off their neignbors^ goods. 

Launcelot revolved these questions wearily in his mind, 
until the man jogged his elbow in a shamefaced way. 

“You were speaking of breakfast, sir; old Betty vdll be 
ready by now.^^ 

“Then we will go at once,^^ returned Launcelot, with his 
old briskness, for he was never slow to feed hungry men ; but 
after all Betty kept them waiting a little longer, for they were 
her earliest customers. 

Launcelot provided himself with a cup of the “prime 
coffee it was hot and sweet, and of no particular flavor, but 
he managed a sip or two, which did him good. 

But the real benefit lay in watching Martin, — he had given 
his name, Joseph Martin ; to him the coffee was nectar and 
the huge slabs of bread and butter food of the choicest quality ; 
and as he ate and drank, a little life and color seemed to come 
into his white face, and his eyes lost their wild, hungry look. 

By and by the coffee-stall became surrounded by men who 
were waiting for a day^s job, and a tribe of miserable ragged 
boys. Launcelot gravely invited them all to breakfast, and 
old Betty ^s stall was soon cleared. 

“I think we may as well be going, Martin, before a crowd 
collects, he whispered at length, when he saw the last slice of 
bread and butter in the dirty hand of a street Arab ; “let us 
slip away.^^ But they were not quick enough to avoid the 
ringing cheer from the satisfled guests, and in spite of his 
despondency a faint smile rose to Launcelot’s lips. 

“Now for business, he said, as they entered a quiet street ; 
and taking out his pocket-book he wrote a few lines to Miss 
Thorpe, and charged the man to deliver them without fail at 
her office, by eleven o^ clock. 

“ The lady to whom this is addressed will inquire into your 
case, and do her best for you ; if your wife is well enough to 
go with you, it would be better to let Miss Thorpe see her, and 
the children, as she will provide them with clothing, if neces- 
sary, and tell you where to And a decent lodging. There is a 
shilling for you, and now you must pluck up heart and hope 
for better days. Tell Miss Thorpe about your girl, — she is in 
connection with a society for rescue work, and she must be 
found ; good-by, Martin. 

And Launcelot turned away quickly, for he saw the man^s 
emotion was getting the better of him, and he wanted to avoid 
well-merited jthanks. 

But the words he had written to Miss Thorpe were these : 

“ My dear friend, — Will you do your best for this poor fellow? 
he wants a helping hand sadly. He cannot And work here ; 
would it not be well to give him a decent suit of clothes and 
send him back to his own village ? Let it be at my expense 
if you will, only let it be done thoroughly, — it is a sad storv.^^ 

It was still so early that he had to walk a long way before 


A MODERN BAYARD. 


193 


he could find a cab that would take him to Brentwood com- 
mon ; indeed, it was not seven when he let himself in at the 
green door in the wall, and went by the garden way to the 
side entrance, where the cook was holding a colloquy with 
the milkman. 

He wished her good-morning and gave her a message for 
Fenwick, that he was not to be disturbed until he rang his 
bell, ana then breakfast was to be served for him in the 
studio. 

“ I will have a glass of that fresh milk now, and a crust of 
bread, if you will be good enough to give it me, Mrs. Plumber,^' 
he added. 

Better let me give you a cup of tea, sir, — the kettle is 
boiling, and you look sadly jaded.^^ And Launcelot did not 
refuse so tempting an offer. 

Then he went up to his own room, took a bath, and lay 
down on his bed for an hour^s sleep ; his rest was brief, how- 
ever. By ten he had ended his solitary meal and opened his 
letters, and then he went in search of his step-mother. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

A MODERN BAYARD. 

“ The man whom I call deserving the name Is one whose thoughts and 
exertions are for others rather than for himself. Peverii of the Peak. 

‘*But, Madella— ” 

** Not another word, Launcelot. I have made up my mind ; 
that girl shall not remain under my roof. Now, it is no use 
your trying to influence me ; this is not a matter that a young 
man can decide. If only your poor father were alive,—but, of 
course, he would say a woman of my age would know best. 
Think of the bad example for our girls ; and then there are 
Geoffrey and Bernard to consider. A mother must think flrst 
of her own children.” 

Granted, but a mother^s duty need not stop there. That 
is the worst of you good women, — you will mother your own 
girls, but you will not extend your guardianship and charity 
to aj)oor misguided young woman.” 

“ Let her go home to her husband, if he will have her !” re- 
turned Mrs. Chudleigh, with decided temper, for there could be 
no doubt that she was more seriously ruffled than even Launce- 
lot had feared she would be. The fair, placid face was flushed 
with the heat of righteous indignation ; the mild eyes sparkled 
with angry excitement. She looked as flerce as a swan when 
a strange footstep invades the sedgy bank where her cygnets^ 
nest is hidden. For the flrst time, Launcelot^s influence 
seemed to fail. For more than an hour he had been quietly 
X n 17 


m 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


reasoning with her, but as yet he had made no impression ; 
but, all the same, he did not appear cast down by nis want 
of success. He had expected difficulty and opposition ; he 
knew human nature too well to anticipate an easy victory. 
There is no severer censor of her own sex than a thoroughly 
good, pure-minded woman : such a one will refuse to allow 
the force of a temptation that would have had no power over 
herself. Invincible in her own innocence and integrity, she 
is ready and willing to cast the first stone. 

It requires Infinite Love to raise the sinner. It was only 
Omnipotent Mercy that could endure the caressing touch of 
penitence and not be defiled by it. But Christian women 
close their eyes and draw the hem of their garment aside for 
fear of contamination. “You have fallen, but we will not 
help you to rise, though we have daughters of our own for 
whom we pray every night that is what they say ; and the 
“ Neither do I condemn thee’^ is only spoken by the Master 
they profess to serve. 

Launcelot knew all this, and he knew, too, that in the eyes 
of that loyal wife and mother Joanns sin was very black in- 
deed, — she had not only left her husband, but she had cast oflT 
her marriage vows. “ It is her deception and ingratitude that 
sicken me, and the thought of the mischief she has done,^^ 
Mrs. Chudleigh had observed in an earlier part of their con- 
versation, but Launcelot had asked for no explanation of this 
vague speech. 

He had sat silent for a little while after she had delivered 
her last fiing. He would give her time to cool and to repent 
of some of her hard speeches ; but by and by he said, very 
quietly,— 

“How easy it is to misunderstand even those who are 
dearest and closest to us. Now, a little while ago, if any one 
had told me that you would have refused me anything I asked 
as a favor, I would not have believed them ; but it seems that 
there are limits even to Madella^s generosity. 

This reproach brought the tears to her eyes, and her bosom 
heaved a little. 

“ Launce, — oh, my dear boy, — how can you have the heart 
to say such a thing, when you know it is of you I am think- 
ing, that it is for your sake I want her to go? Oh, you have 
not said a word, but I know for all that — but then she 
stopped, a little frightened by his peremptory gesture and the 
sternness of his set white face. 

“ Mother^ and she absolutely started ; he had never called 
her mother but once in his life ; when he was dangerously ill 
as a lad, and the doctors had given her little hope, then he 
had called her to him and begged her not to leave him again. 
“Mother,’^ he said, and there was pleading in his tone, “if 
you love me, never allude to this again. I need no words to 
assure me of your sympathy. Let the silence between us be 
unbroken.^' 


A MODERN BAYARD. 


195 


“Very well, Launcelot,^^ she answered, meekly, and as she 
stooped and kissed his forehead he put back his head and it 
seemed to rest involuntarily against her shoulder. 

“ My dear boy, my poor boy she ventured to whisper, as 
though she felt this mute appeal to her hearths core. 

“ I think I am tired, observed Launcelot presently, as 
though his manhood wished to apologize for this momentary 
weakness. 

Tired,— aye, almost broken-hearted— she knew that well. 
The largesse and riches of his love were all wasted ; that great, 
kingly heart had been laid in the dust. “ My poor boy, my 
darling boy she sighed, still bemoaning him, and not know- 
ing the advantage he would take of her tenderness. 

“ Madella,^^ he said, rousing himself, “ if there be one thing 
that could make me happier than I am at present, it would be 
to see Mrs. Thorpe under her husband’s roof again, to know 
they were united.” 

“Yes, but, Launce, do you think such a thing is possible? 
Mr. Thorpe seems a stern man ; he would hardly condone 
such an offence.” 

“It is his duty to condone it; he is her husband, remem- 
ber that ; he is responsible for that poor girl. What right had 
he to yield to her undisciplined wishes? He should have kept 
her at all costs. If harm had come to her, it would be on his 
head. He dare not leave her exposed to the world’s tender 
mercies, he dare not,” and Launcelot’s hand clinched itself 
involuntarily. “When I speak to him I shall tell him that 
he has failed in his duty.” 

“ You had better keep out of it, Launcelot.” Then he looked 
at her with extreme surprise. 

“There I differ from you. I consider Miss Rossiter — I 
mean Mrs. Thorpe — under our joint guardianship until she is 
restored to her husband’s care. Sit down and let us talk about 
it a little,” for she was still standing beside him with her 
hand on his shoulder ; she had risen to comfort him and had 
not cared to reseat herself, but now Launcelot put her with 
gentle force into the chair beside him. 

“That is more comfortable. You must not get pale and 
tired over it, Madella, for you are my one comfort, and I am 
depending on your help then metaphorically she was at his 
feet in a moment, she was ready to do his bidding slavishly, 
if only she could be a comfort to her boy. 

“ Oh, Launce, if I only could comfort you !” 

“You shall, you always do. Now you are your own sweet 
self again, and I can speak to you openly, but first you must 
promise to forgive that poor girl.” 

“ I will try, but you must give me time, and not ask me to 
do impossible things ; and, Launcelot, if she is not to leave 
the house directly, I must make one condition, that she puts 
on her wedding-ring and calls herself by her right name.” 

“ You must tell her so ; she will not refuse to be guidecL 


m 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


She is very miserable ; I don^t think I ever saw any one so 
unhappy ;* it is quite pitiful to see her. She has got herself 
into trouble, and she has no more idea than a child what to do 
next. Indeed, you need not fear her contaminating Bee or 
Pauline ; she is really good and innocent. Though her impul- 
sive nature has led her wrong, she will be the first to accuse 
herself and implore your forgiveness.^^ 

“Yes, but, Launcelot, she has done exceedingly wrong. 
Suppose one of my daughters. Bee for example, had acted as 
Miss Rossiter has — oh, there is the old name.” 

“ Bee had a good mother to teach her, she has not grown up 
exposed to every sort of bad influence ; but if she could have 
been guilty of such deception, you would still have taken her 
to your heart, and remembered that she was your daughter. 
Oh, Madella, it is all very well to harden your heart now, but 
you will not find it so difldcult to forgive her after all.” But 
Mrs. Chudleigh would not allow this ; she had maintained her 
firmness for a whole hour, and she was unwilling to resume 
her old limpness of purpose. 

“ I think it is for her to come to me,” she said, with a touch 
of severity. 

“ True, but I know you well enough to be sure you will not 
wait for that. You must send the children out, and get her 
to talk to you about her husband ; a woman has more finesse 
than a man. You will be able to judge of her feelings, and 
know how to give her a word in season.” 

“ She may refuse to listen to me.” 

“ Oh, no, she will not refuse ; she loves you dearly. Make 
an opportunity to speak to her this afternoon while the girls 
are absent, — they will be back before evening. Now I am 
going to write a line to Thorpe. I shall ask him to come up 
to-morrow evening and speak to me on pressing business, and 
then I shall put the whole thing in his hands. Perhaps you 
had better tell the girls and GeoflTrey ; it is no use making a 
mystery of it. I am giving you a great deal of unpleasant 
work, Madella, but I did not sleep last night, and my head is 
inclined to ache. I shall keep quiet, and this feeling wiP 
pass off.” 

“ Indeed, you do look wretchedly ill ; why, there are black 
lines under your eyes. Oh, dear,” interrupting herself, “I 
quite forgot to give you this,” and she handed him a note, “ a 
messenger brought it this morning.” 

“ It is from Miss Thorpe,” returned Launcelot, after he had 
mastered the^ison tents ; “ she wants me to call on her about 
five. One of my numerous prot^g^s has got into a bit of 
trouble. It is that Job Wilkinson ; 1 always said he had a bee 
in his bonnet. I must confess I wish Job were at Hanover 
at the present moment.” 

“ Yes, but it would never do to forsake the poor fellow,” re- 
plied Mrs. Chudleigh, with diplomatic and well-feigned in- 
terest. Job Willunson was a bore certainly and most likely a 


A MODERN BAYARD, 


197 


rogue in the bargain, but anything was better for Launcelot 
than brooding in his studio. If she could only get him out of 
the house as much as possible while that unfortunate young 
woman was in it ! 

Launcelot had been too generous to imply that his step- 
mother had been to blame in bringing a stranger under their 
roof without satisfactory references, but all the same her con- 
science pricked her most sadly, and her self-accusation made 
her uneasy and irritable ; her own injudiciousness had brought 
this trouble on him, and she felt all at once as though ten years 
were added to her age. 

“ Of course I must go,” he answered, with some annoyance, 
“but I think a nap would have done my head more good,” 
and then he rose slowly from his chair, and walked out of the 
room ; but she followed him into the studio a few minutes 
later, to tell him that Miss Rossi ter, as she still called her, was 
not coming down to luncheon, but had sent a message by Sybil 
to excuse herself. 

“ You will come and carve for the children as usual, Launce, 
will you not?” she asked, with a sort of yearning to keep him 
in her sight. 

“ There is no reason why I should not come to any meals,” 
he answered, quietly ; “ perhaps it is as well that Mrs. Thorpe 
should keep up-stairs to-day, but she must not absent her- 
self to-morrow. We may have to go on like this for a long 
time, for I cannot cheat myself into the belief that Thorpe 
will open his door to her at once. Let everything, therefore, 
be as usual ; if there be any one I wish to avoid, I can dine 
at my club,” and this time she did not venture to contradict 
him. 

Launcelot came in to luncheon, and talked to the two little 
girls, and never even changed countenance when Sybil told 
him how bad poor Miss Rossiter^s headache had been all the 
morning. “ She makes it worse with crying, I tell her so over 
and over again,” finished Sybil, who was much dissatisfied 
with the change in her lively governess, and who had never 
found the school-room so dull before. Dossie was rather quieter 
than usual, and did not join much in Sybil’s chatter, but 
Launcelot noticed once or twice the blue eyes were fixed rather 
anxiously on his face. When luncheon was over and he pushed 
back his chair, he felt a little hand slip into his. 

“ Have you a headache, too, Mr. Lance?” 

“Well, yes, it is rather bad, Dossie.” 

“Father had it once,” she said, wistfully, “ and he let me 
bathe his head with eau de cologne. Aunt Della has some 
lovely eau de cologne ; do let me put some on your forehead, 
it will do you ever so much good.” 

“ I am quite sure of that, dear,” and for a moment Launce- 
lot thought how comforting it would be to lie down in a cool, 
shaded room and submit to these childish manipulations ; but 
there could be no rest for him yet, — “but I have some letters 

17 * 


m 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


to write, and then I must go out,^’ and as her face fell at his 
words he kissed her forehead. 

“I know what a dear little nurse you can be, Dossie, but I 
am too busy to think of my headache but the kind words 
did not seem to console Dossie, for she sighed heavily and her 
eyes filled with tears. 

do not like Mr. Lance to look like that. Aunt Della,” 
she said when he had left the room ; “ it makes me ache some- 
how. I do wish I could do something for him,” and all that 
afternoon Sybil found her a very unsatisfactory playfellow. 
Dossie moped, and even Beppo^s playful tricks failed to 
win a smile from his little mistress ; the child's sensitive 
and precocious nature felt the disturbing infiuences of the 
moral atmosphere round her. If Mr. Lance were ill or un- 
happy, it was plainly impossible for Dossie to be comfortable 
or at her ease. 

Lauiicelot had no thoughts for his little favorite ; he wrote 
his business letters, and then ordered his phaeton to be brought 
round, and drove himself to Priory Road. As he stood in the 
hall drawing on his driving-gloves, his step-mother came to 
him. 

I have just received a note from Bee,” she said ; ‘4t was 
brought by hand, and the messenger is waiting for an answer. 
Lady Hamblyn wants both the girls to stay over to-morrow. 
There is to be a grand concert at the Crystal Palace, to which 
she wants to take them. I suppose there can be no objection 
to their remaining ?” 

None whatever. I shall be glad for them to stay,” he re- 
turned, hastily, forgetting for the moment his fear of the 
Hamblyn connection. He was only too thankful that the 
girls should be away ; he knew the interview with Joan would 
try his step-mother exceedingly, and she must have time to 
recover from her agitation. 

“ Teli Bee that they may remain as long as they wish,” he 
said in quite a tone of relief as he stepped into the phaeton, 
and then drove quickly across the common and down the hill 
towards Overton. 

He found Miss Thorpe alone, with her little tea-table beside 
her ; as she took his hand her keen gray eyes instantly detected 
the alteration in his looks. 

“You are tired or worried, perhaps both. I ought not to 
have sent for you,” she said, regretfully. 

“I have over-walked myself,” was the evasive answer, 
“ and this dry heat tries one. I expect a cup of your excel- 
lent tea will dome good ;” and Miss Thorpe, who was never 
slow to take a hint, poured out the tea, and, ignoring her 
favorite's careworn looks, treated him to a brief, business-iike 
summary of Job Wilkinson's misdemeanors. 

“ We must just wash our hands of him ; he is worthless, 
quite worthless I” she concluded. 

“ I dare say you are right : anyhow, I am too lazy to contras 


A MODERN BAYARD, 190 

diet you ; worthless, no doubt, but I think we will give the 
poor fellow another chance. 

“ But, Mr. Chudleigh, I tell you Job is incorrigible.^' 

True. But Job has a wife and children, and he must have 
bread to put in their mouths. He has a very small allowance 
of brains, and I think his moral sense is not quite developed ; 
but even incorrigible people must be fed." 

“ But not at the expense of our Society !" she rejoined, wax- 
ing a little warm at this opposition. ‘‘We only undertake to 
reheve women and children ; besides, I have proved to you 
already that the Wilkinsons are not reliable. You must ex- 
cuse me if I say that I think you are wrong in advocating 
their cause." 

“Oh, but I am doing nothing of the kind. I am simply 
pleading for mercy. Come, Miss Thorpe, I will not tax either 
your conscience or the Society, but I know you will not refuse 
to act as my private almoner. Let Job have another chance ; 
his wife is a decent body, whose only fault is that she has mar- 
ried a fool." 

“Very well," shrugging her shoulders, “I have given you 
my opinion, and if you choose to saddle yourself with a set of 
shiftless creatures who only know how to put their hand to 
their mouth, that is your affair, not mine. Now I have an- 
other scolding in store for you. Our Society is not elastic, 
and we have too many claimants for aid already, and yet you 
have sent us Joseph Martin!" 

“ Oh, yes," — waking up to interest now. “ I am most anx- 
ious to know the result of your interview with him ; you re- 
member what I said in my note, that all expenses might be 
put to my account." 

“I think," she returned, slowly, but her fine face softened 
as she looked at him, “that you are the most impulsive 
and injudicious person that I ever met, and that unless you 
keep your generosity in due bounds you will soon ruin your- 
self." 

“ Still, it is a deserving ease," he replied, perfectly ignoring 
this lecture. “ Poor Martin ! My heart bled for him last 
night. Did he bring his wife and children ? I hope you con- 
sidered his account satisfactory." 

“ I think he spoke the truth. It is certainly a sad case ; the 
children look half starved, and the baby is dying. I have 
done my best for them. Betty has taken them home, and we 
have fitted them out with decent clothes ; they want to go 
back to their old village. Martin thinks his old master will 
give them a job. Shall we keep Mrs. Martin and the children 
for a week or so while he looks out for work ? The poor baby 
cannot last much longer, and one of the other children looks 
ill. If you will agree to this Betty will house them, and I 
will give Martin his fare and a small sum for a week's food 
and lodging,— that is, if you still persist in your generous 
intentions.'' 


200 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


“ I think that will be the best plan. Don^t stint the poor 
fellow ; he has been half starved too, and hungry men cannot 
work well. Send him back to his old place to-morrow morn- 
ing, and feed up the wife and children. Now I am your 
debtor. Miss Thorpe. Shall I write you a check now, or will 
you give me in the account afterwards 
“ I should prefer the latter, and I have a little in hand still. 
Very well, 1 will settle the Martins to-morrow, and Mrs. 
Wilkinson will be here to-night. Now let me give you an- 
other cup of tea, as we quarrelled over the last.” 

Launcelot took the cup from her hand a little absently. A 
thought had just occurred to him— Should he make a confi- 
dante of Miss Thorpe? Without waiting to speak to her 
brother, the opportunity had come unsought ; he might try 
to soften her animosity against her sister-in-law, to appeal to 
her justice and common sense. True, it was a hazardous ex- 

E eriment, and Miss Thorpe was a difficult person to infiuence, 
ut, as he hesitated, by a strange coincidence Miss Thorpe led 
to the subject. 

“Mr. Chudleigh,” she began rather abruptly, “do you 
believe that I am a person likely to be subjected to any 
hallucination?” 

“ That depends on what you mean to express by the term. 
In one^s dictionary the word means ‘ an error or illusion of 
sensible perception, occasioned by some bodily or organic dis- 
order or affection, as distinguished from a phantasm, which 
is owing to disorder of the mind or imagination,^ but in either 
case I should think you the very last person to be duped by 
your imagination or senses.” 

“Well, I should have said just the same thing myself ; it 
must have been transmission of thought, but it certainly had 
the very strongest appearance of reality, and made me uneasy 
for a long time afterwards. I did not tell Ivan, of course, but 
there can be no harm in mentioning it to you. The other day 
I was paying a bill at Sparke^s— you know that low shop by 
the bridge, I have dealt there for some time. Well, I was just 
putting the change in my purse, counting it to make sure it was 
correct, when all at once the thought of Joan flashed through 
my mind ; I looked up, and through the open door I could see 
her face as plainly as I see you, and then it disappeared.” 
“Was she alone?” 

“ What a question ! You speak as though it were really she, 
and not a trick of my imagination. I tell you I only saw her 
face.” 

“ You have not even an impression about her dress?” 

“Yes, she wore a hat trimmed with dark green velvet. I 
assure you I saw it quite plainly ; she was looking pale too, I 
noticed that. I thought for a moment it was really Joan, and 
I rushed to the shop door and looked up the street, but there 
was no one there. — only two little girls looking in at tue 
chemist^B window.” 


A MODERN BAYARD. 


201 


“Was one of those little girls Dossie?^^ 

“ Dossie ? I never thought about the child. How should I 
know ? They were in white frocks and wore broad-brimmed 
straw hats, but I did not see their faces. What made you 
mention Dossie 

“I thought perhaps you had seen their governess, Miss 
Rossiter but Miss Thorpe was too much engrossed by her 
own thoughts to notice Launcelot^s peculiar manner. 

“ It must have been transmission of thought. I have often 
read of people experiencing this sort of momentary illusion, 
only it made me feel very uncomfortable. I sometimes 
wish — and then she stopped, and an uneasy expression 
crossed her face. 

“ Miss Thorpe, how long is it since you heard from your 
sister-in-law?^^ 

“Oh, a very long time,^^ but Launcelot could see that she 
made the admission somewhat reluctantly. “ Ivan wished to 
keep up a correspondence, as I told you, but it was terribly 
unsatisfactory and did no good. My last letter, with money 
enclosed, was returned to me. Joan had left her situation. 

“ That was after Mrs. Selby ^s death.” 

“I suppose so, but,” glancing at him still more uneasily, 
“ how did you know Mrs. Selby was dead?” 

“ I will tell you presently ; I have had news of your sister- 
in-law. Her aunt Mrs. Templeton is dead too.” 

A dark flush crossed Miss Thorpe’s face. 

“ She did not tell us so ; she left me to And out for myself 
when my letter was returned. I made inquiries, and found 
that thev were both dead and that Joan had left the neighbor- 
hood. Of course she had taken another situation, and she did 
not wish me to know her address.” 

“Miss Thorpe,” returned Launcelot, very quietly, “I have 
a great deal to tell you, but there is one question that I must 
have answered flrst ; does your brother know that Mrs. Selby 
is dead ? has he any idea that Mrs. Thorpe is not still at Mal- 
vern?” but as he asked this a hard look came into Miss 
Thorpe’s eyes, and her thin lips twitched nervously* 

“ iNo,” she returned, steadily. “You have no right to put 
such a question to me, but I will not tell you a lie. Ivan cioes 
not know ; I never told him.” 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


ao2 


CHAPTER XXV. 

KACHEL^S SILENCE. 

“ The fall thou darest to despise, 

May be the slacken’d angel’s hand 
Has suffered it, that he may rise 
And take a firmer, surer stand ; 

Or, trusting less to earthly things, 

May henceforth learn to use his wings.” 

AdeiiAidk Anne Procter. 

Miss Thobpe^s singular avowal did not in the least surprise 
Launcelot. All along there had been a latent suspicion in his 
mind that his friend had acted most unwisely in making his 
sister the medium of communication with his wife. She had 
most undoubtedly strengthened his prejudices, and fanned his 
anger when it was in danger of smouldering ; and more than 
once he had had reason to fear that Mr. Thorpe was not com- 
pletely acquainted with his wife^s movements. 

He remained so long silent, revolving probable consequences 
in his mind, that Miss Thorpe naturally misunderstood him. 
She thought he was too much shocked to speak, and placed 
herself at once on the defensive. 

“ I said you had no right to put such a question to me, and 
now you have less right to judge me. I am not ashamed of 
what I have done. How can you, or any one, understand 
what I have been through on Ivan^s account? My motives 
have justified my actions. If I held my tongue about Joan, 
if I did not share my anxieties with Ivan, it was because I 
would not add to his heavy trouble. He had suflfered so much, 
I wanted, I longed for him to forget.” 

“ Do you think a man is ever likely to forget such things?” 

“ I am not speaking literally. Of course he remembers and 
is sorry, but his suffering is blunted ; time is a merciful healer, 
and it is easier to forget when there is nothing to recall things 
too vividly to onefe mind. It is long since we have even men- 
tioned her name ; it is far better not to speak of her. I think 
he is beginning to feel less sensitive about his position.” 

” There I differ from you. I fear you are making a very 
grave mistake, and, at the risk of offending you, I must add 
that you are^ot acting with your usual rectitude and high 
principle.” 

It was evident to Launcelot that this plain speaking gave 
Miss Thorpe acute pain. The tears came into her eyes for a 
moment, but she recovered herself at once. 

‘‘ It is rather hard to be misjudged by a friend, but we have 
always spoken the truth to each other, and I suppose I must 
bear it as patiently as I can. Even Ivan will tell me I am 


RACHEL SILENCE, 


203 


wrong, and yet I cannot regret what I have don^ when I think 
of the months of suspense I have spared him. He would have 
made himself miserable on Joanns account ; he would not have 
known a moment^s peace. 

“And you kept your anxieties to yourself 

“ I thought it kinder to Ivan to do so. I will not deny that 
I was terribly uneasy when my letter was returned. I made 
all possible inquiries, but could only glean a few scanty facts. 
— that both Mrs. Templeton and Mrs. Selby were dead, and 
that Joan had received a small legacy, and had left the neigh- 
borhood without stating her plans for the future and without 
mentioning our name.^^ 

“ And you kept your brother in ignorance of all this ?” 

“ Not entirely. I told him of Mrs. Templeton^s death, — in- 
deed, it was in the paper, — and I also mentioned to him that 
Joan invariably returned the money sent for her use ; and he 
told me to lock it up, and keep it for her, as she would proba- 
oly change her mind some day. Her last letter had provoked 
me excessively, and I had sent back an angry reply. I wish 
now I had used a milder tone. I thought the long silence was 
intended to punish me for telling her sundry unpalatable 
truths, and that when she had sulked long enough she would 
write as usual, and tell me she had found another situation. 
I did not begin to feel seriously uneasy for some time.^^ 

“And you could take such a responsibility on yourself, not 
knowing what had become of that poor girl ? Miss Thorpe, 
how could you ever answer to your brother if any evil had be- 
fallen her?^^ 

Miss Thorpe turned perceptibly paler. He was putting her 
thoughts too plainly into words. “How you talk she re- 
turned, angrily. “Joan is very impulsive and foolish, but she 
knows how to take care of herself. Nothing can have hap- 

E ened to her. She is only trying to give us the slip. I shall 
ear of her one day.^^ 

“ You will be glad to hear?’^ 

“ Undoubtedly : it would be the greatest relief ; and there is 
always the danger, too, that Ivan may question me more 
closely than I wish. He has asked once or twice after her, 
but I have managed to satisfy him without sacrificing the 
truth. I am afraid if Joan does not write soon that I may 
have to tell him all, but I am putting off the evil day as long 
as possible. Why are you looking at me so intently, Mr. 
Chudleigh?^^ 

“I am only thinking what complicated moral machines 
human beings, even the best of them, are. Here are you, a 
thoughtful, sensible woman, doing evil with all your might 
that good may come, and just because you know so clearly 
it is evil, you are quietly blindfolding yourself and other 
people. Thank you for letting me see so much of the truth. 
You are quite as uncomfortable about your sister-in-law as you 
ought to be under the circumstances. Now, if I promise to 


204 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


set your anxieties at rest, will you give me your word of honor 
not to betray my confidence?^’ 

“You know something about Joan?” she replied, starting 
up in an excited way that verified his words. 

“ Most assuredly, but my news will be kept to myself unless 
I can depend on your silence.” 

“You know you can depend upon it,” she returned, re- 
proachfully. “Mr. Chudleigh, please do not keep me in such 
suspense.” 

“ I will not. Mrs. Thorpe is at the Witchens.” 

“No— o— !” 

“ It was Mrs. Thorpe whom you saw that day. She has 
been living at our house for months, indeed for more than a 
year. She is Miss Rossiter, Sybil’s governess.” 

“What do you mean? what can you mean?” and Miss 
Thorpe’s voice was dry and husky. “ Joan at the Witchens, 
and you never told us !” Then very gravely and very care- 
fully, and with evident consideration for the erring wife, 
Launcelot put her in possession of the main facts of the case. 

The look of intense relief that had greeted his first words 
faded from Miss Thorpe’s face as she listened, and at the 
close a few sternly uttered words of sweeping condemnation 
fell from her lips. 

“ She has done for herself,” was her concluding remark. 
“ Even I, whom you think so hard on her, would not have 
believed this. Ivan will never forgive her.” 

“Then Ivan is not the man I take him to be. Fie, Miss 
Thorpe ! are these the lessons we learn from our professed 
Christianity, ‘ unto seventy times seven’ ? Do you mean that 
your sister-in-law has reached even those wide limits ?” 

“ Excuse me, I cannot reason on this basis. For once you 
must be practical and look at this from Ivan’s point of view. 
In his eyes, Joan will have sinned past all forgiveness.” 

“ Let him tell me so, and I shall know how to answer him. 
Forgive me if I tell you again how much you are disappoint- 
ing me. I expected a more merciful judgment from a woman, 
but I will not argue the point with you just now. Let me 
tell you what I intend to do. I have written to your brother 
asking him to come to me to-morrow evening, and then I 
shall tell him everything, and beg him to take his wife under 
his protection, forgiving her as he will hope one day to be 
forgiven.” 

“ You will send Joan back to us ! you will ask us to condone 
the past, andLtake her under our roof again I Mr. Chudleigh, 
you cannot be serious.” 

“ Indeed, I am. This is your brother’s house ; his wife is 
its rightful mistress. The question lies between those two 
human souls, who have so entirely misunderstood each other. 
No sister has a right to come between a man and hiS wife. 
You see I am telling you the truth. I think you have been 
much to blame.” 


RACHEL SILENCE, 


205 


“You mean because I woul^ not leave Ivan? Oh, I am 
not angry. You may say what you like to me. I am onlv 
sorry that you cannot take my part, — that you side with 
Joan.” 

A hot flush swept over Launcelot^s face. “ I take no one^s 
part. I am on the side of justice and mercy. I want to see a 
grave mistake rectified. I want two people who have only 
made each other miserable to find the way to ultimate under- 
standing and peace.” 

“ But you think I am the hindrance to this.” 

“Not intentionally, not with your own will. But a third 
person is always a disturbing element in matrimonial disputes. 
I think it would have been wiser if you had seen your way to 
leave your brother and wife together. Do you mind my tell- 
ing you this?” 

“No, of course not; you are our one friend. But, Mr. 
Chudleigh, how can you have the heart to condemn me to 
such exile ! Ivan is my life, he is all I have. We have never 
been separated. I do not believe he would be happy without 
me. Joan does not love him; she makes him miserable.” 
And now a slow tear rolled down her cheek. 

Launcelot was moved when he saw it. With all her faults, 
all her prejudice and hardness, Bachers love for her brother 
was a great absorbing passion. He was simply her life, as she 
expressed it. She had no stores of tenderness for others ; her 
strong, reticent nature was not capable of many attachments. 
From his boyhood he had been the object of her tenacious and 
jealous affection. It was because she feared a rival that his 
marriage had been so distasteful to her. Even a more perfect 
woman than poor faulty Joan would have had to suffer much 
at her hands. Launcelot’s shrewdness recognized this. 

He had spoken the truth very plainly to her, and now he 
would say no more to her. It needed other teaching than his 
to show her the fallacy of her own words, — that it was because 
she did not love her brother enough that such self-sacrifice 
was impossible to her. The rigid, jealous bonds in which she 
held him were not to be compared with the noble selflessness 
that would efface itself for the beloved object, and Rachel 
Thorpe had yet to learn that the highest love demands 
least. 

“ I am truly sorry for you,” Launcelot said, as he took leave 
a little later on. “I am afraid I am only adding to your 
trouble just now, but I have faith in you. I believe when you 
think over things quietly that you will come round to mv 
opinion, and then you will act generously and like yourself.” 
But she only shook her head. 

“ I am an obstinate woman, and I do not find it very easy 
to change my views. I feel and express myself strongly about 
things, Mr. Chudleigh,” looking wistfully at him, — and Miss 
Thorpe^s eyes could be expressive when they chose. “ Be my 
friend in one thing; do not let Ivan be angry with me.” 

18 


206 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


Then he smiled at her very kindly, for he quite understood 
where her fear lay. 

That is one thing over,*^ he thought, wearily, as he stood 
still to hail a passing hansom, and, as a great wave of heart- 
sickness passed over him, he wondered for a moment how he 
was to go on living. 

He had said he was sorry for her, but if he could have 
looked back into that pretty drawing-room a moment and 
seen the hard, stony look on Rachel Thorpe^s face as she 
leaned back in the great carved chair and rested her aching 
head against the woodwork, he would have been more than 
sorry, — his generous heart would have bled for her. 

Rachel was alone now and could think it out quietly, and 
her face grew pinched and wan as an old woman^s. She had 
said little to Launcelot ; the strange news had overwhelmed 
her. and had made her feel numb and giddy. 

What an intense relief had come to her when she found he 
could tell her news of Joan! No one knew what she had suf- 
fered all these months on that girPs account. It was true she 
had justified her silence to Launcelot, but, all the same, her 
anxiety had been terrible. Often she had passed sleepless 
nights thinking of Ivan^s anger if he found out that she had 
no clue to Joanns whereabouts. True, she had kept him in 
the dark for his own good, but would he be grateful to her for 
her silence ? This was her secret fear. 

And now he would know it, and not from her lips, and it 
was the dread of his anger that made her look so wan. Ivan 
had never been angry with her in his life, had never spoken 
roughly to her, and she thought how terrible it would be to 
see his dear face turned from her in displeasure, for a sudden 
strong light seemed to flood her inner consciousness, and she 
could no longer deceive herself with plausible excuses. She 
had prided herself upon the purity of her motives, but as she 
had listened to Launcelot^s strange and inexplicable account, it 
was impossible for her to deny that her silence had been a 
grievous mistake. 

Would she have held her peace for a single day if she could 
have guessed that all this time Joan was living in their imme- 
diate neighborhood ? that at any moment they might meet 
face to face? And then the scandal and disgrace of it all! 
What mischief might not ensue from such utter recklessness 
and disregard of consequences? How would Ivan live through 
the miserable scenes that must follow? No, he would never 
forgive Joan^she repeated over and over again. This long 
deception would be the death-blow to his love, she knew, and 
the knowledge was bitter to her that Ivan was still fond of 
his wife, that in his heart he cherished a secret hope that one 
day she would acknowledge her faults and return to him. 

And now perhaps he would be angry with them both, — and 
yet if she had sinned it had been for his sake. It had been a 
9ore moment to her when she read condemnation in her favor- 


RACHEL SILENCE, 


207 


Ite^s eyes, — those honest gray eyes that seemed to read her 
through and through. ‘‘ You are not acting with your usual 
rectitude and high principle,” he had said to her, but his voice 
had been very gentle, and she had winced at his words as 
though a dart had been thrust through her. 

But Launcelot^s disapproval was as nothing compared with 
Ivan^s. And then she resolved that if his anger were great 
against her she would try to bear it as meekly as she could, — 
there should be no angry recriminations on her part. If he 
would not listen to her defence, she would be silent. “ It is 
in his power to punish me to the very limits of my deserts,” 
she thought bitterly, “ but if the pangs be ever so great, I will 
not ask him to spare me. He knows me by this time. He 
knows that I would not have deceived him except for his own 
good.” But, strange to say, even this reflection did not com- 
fort her. Conscience was awake in Bachel Thorpe at last, and 
would not be silenced by any plausible sophistries. 

At this moment she heard the sound of her brother's latch- 
key turning in the lock, and rose hurriedly, smoothing her 
hair with her hands and shaking out the folds of her black 
dress. As she looked in the glass she saw the puckered lines 
of her forehead, and told herself that she would soon be an 
old woman ; and then, as though to point a contrast, Joan’s 
face seemed to flash before her, the dark Irish gray eyes brim- 
ming over with life and fun, the beautiful mouth, full and 
pouting like a child’s, the small head with its coils of ruddy 
brown hair, — Ivan’s bride, whom he had introduced so proudly. 

Ah, how well she remembered that moment ! There had 
been no shyness, no hesitation on the young wife’s part. 
Joan’s arms had been round her in an instant. 

“ Be good to me and love me, Rachel. I have never had a 
sister of my own.” These had been her flrst words, and she 
remembered that while her own eyes were dry, Joan’s had 
been full of tears. 

But this recollection made her shiver, and then she won- 
dered why Ivan did not come to her as usual, and went in 
search of him. 

She found him sitting in his study, apparently doing 
nothing, for even his paper lay untouched beside him. As 
he turned round at her entrance she thought how tired and 
worn he looked. “ Ivan is getting old, too,” she thought with 
a ^^h. 

He held out his hand to her ; they were both undemonstra- 
tive by nature, and except on rare occasions he never kissed 
her. They both preferred to shake hands ; in spite of her 
great love for him, Rachel had never shown him the soft 
caressing ways that most women delight in ; such ways were 
not natural to her. The perfect friendship that subsisted be- 
tween them did not need any outward manifestation of ten- 
derness. 

“ You are tired, Ivan.” 


208 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


“I was just thinking the same thing of he returned, 

quietly. “It is the heat, I suppose, that makes you look so 
pale. Can you spare a moment to sit down ? I want to tell 
you something. You remember Uncle Joseph?” 

“ Yes, indeed ; one could hardly forget his cranky temper. 
It gave me a horror of gout when I was quite a girl.” 

“Well, he is dead.” 

“ Dead ! Poor old man ! Still, it is a comfort to know that 
he has left no one to mourn for him.” 

“Except you and me, you undutiful niece. I wish you 
could contrive to drop one tear to his memory.” 

“Nonsense, Ivan. Why, we have never even seen the old 
man for the last ten years.” 

“He has left me sole legatee, however. I had no idea he 
was worth so much, he kept everything so close. Wyverne 
came up to the office to-day. He says, when things are 
cleared there will be about seven or eight hundred a year. 
The furniture is not good for much, and the plate is electro, 
but there are some good books.” 

“ My dear Ivan, I am so glad. Poor Uncle Joseph I we all 
said he would leave his money to some hospital, but of course 
he has done the right thing : you were his only nephew.” 

“ He might have remembered you too, Rachel.” 

“Oh, no, I have no need for money, except for my Society. 
I would much rather have it as it is. Seven hundred a year ! 
Why, Ivan, you will be quite a rich man with all that and 
the ‘ Imperial Review,^ — you are saving money now.” 

“I do not care to be rich,” he returned, indifferently. “I 
am like you, Rachel, I have no special love of money ; we 
neither of us have expensive tastes, this house is large enough 
for two,” looking round the small study. “If things had 
been otherwise — ” and then he broke off with a sigh. 

A lump seemed to gather in RachePs throat as she looked 
at him. This money gave him no pleasure, then, it would 
add no new interest to his life. 

The quiet routine of work and fraternal intercourse that 
contented her did not satisfy Ivan. At that moment she 
realized the difference in their natures. She asked nothing 
more of life than to go on from day to day as she was doing 
now, — busy daylight hours spent in benefiting her poor fel- 
low-creatures, peaceful evenings alone with Ivan. 

But he, the lonely man, wanted his bright young wife^s 
presence ; he yearned for children to climb upon his knee and 
call him father. There were times when he would rather see 
Joanns face opposite to him in its angry rebellion and discon- 
tent than to sit there looking into vacancy. 

When Rachel had made some excuse to leave him, he rose 
and unlocked a little drawer in his writing-table. It was full 
of his treasures, — some photographs of Joan, taken during 
their wedding tour ; the gloves she had worn as a bride : the 
first flower she had given him ; a lock of shining brown nair ; 


NOT TOO LATE, MY CHILDS 209 

two or three letters, and a little chain she had left behind her, 
and which he found lying on his table. 

“ She said once she wanted a locket with a diamond star,’^ 
he thought ; “ she had a fancy for diamonds, — indeed, for all 
bright things. I wanted to save up and buy her one, only 
Rachel said it would be wrong and foolish in our position. I 
could buy it now with Uncle Josephus money. I could give 
her everything she wanted, but she wants nothing from me 
and then he sat down moodily, and the gold links of the chain 
lay in the palm of his hand. “A more lonely-hearted man 
never livea than Ivan Thorpe, Launcelot had said, and in 
this he was right. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“ NO, NOT TOO LATE, MY CHILD.^’ 

“ Great feelings hath she of her own, 

Which lesser souls may never know; 

God giveth them to her alone, 

And sweet they are as any tone 
Wherewith the wind may choose to blow/' 

liOWKLIi. 

Ip Launcelot had found his afternoon^s work harassing, hla 
step-mother had also been much tried by her interview with 
Joan. 

Mrs. Chudleigh possessed one of those temperate, equable 
natures that are singularly averse to either physical or moral 
storms. The least approach to electricity in the atmosphere, 
or to any disturbing influence that threatened a probable scene, 
seemed to flutter her nervous sensibilities. She could not un- 
derstand a noisy grief, having always covered the face of her 
own dead sorrows with a decent mantle of reserve and sacred 
silence. 

She had always borne her own troubles with a certain sweet 
dignity that robbed them of all bitterness ; she had loved her 
husband dearly, and she loved him still, not believing in any 
possible disunion of those whom God had joined together. 
But though she had mourned most truly for him, not one of 
her children had ever heard her say a single repining or rebel- 
lious word. 

Want of self-control, frantic asseverations, found no sympa- 
thy with her. *‘My dear, you are making it all so much 
harder for yourself, she said once to a young widow who was 
bemoaning herself; “we must not fight against God. Why 
don’t you give it all up, like a tired-out child, and ask Him to 
help you bear it ? That is what I did when my husband died, 
and the help always came.” 

She had sent up a message to the school-room by Dossie that 
« 18* 


210 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


she wished to speak to the governess, and would be with her 
in half an hours time. Then she made arrangements for the 
little girls to walk over to Wimberley with one of the maids, 
and as soon as she had seen them off the premises she went 
up-stairs with a heavy heart. She had i^romised Launcelot to 
do her best for the girl, but all the same she felt as though she 
never wished to see her again. 

Joan was standing by the table as she entered, as though 
she had risen at the sound of her approaching footst^s. 
There was something pathetic in her look and attitude. Bhe 
wore a white gown and a little black lace kerchief loosely 
knotted round her neck ; her cheeks were pale, and her eyes 
had the dim heaviness they had worn for days ; and her hair, 
usually so carefully arranged, clung damply to her temples, 
as though she had been lying down and had forgotten to 
smooth it. 

Mrs. Chudleigh hesitated a moment, and, in spite of all re- 
solves, pity began to agitate her motherly bosom. The girl 
looked very ill. 

“Are you sure that you are fit to be up?” she began, softly ; 

“ shall we wait until to-morrow?” But Joan shook her head 
vehemently at this proposition. 

“ I shall not be any better to-morrow ; I would rather have 
it over.” Then Mrs. Chudleigh sat down by the table, evi- 
dently expecting Joan to follow her example, but the girl did 
not alter her position : she stood before her, with her hands 
tightly grasping each other, and her eyes fixed on the carpet. 

“My dear, I cannot talk to you like this ; will you not sit 
down ?” but again Joan shook her head. 

“No, Mrs. Chudleigh, I will not sit down in your presence, — 
a culprit does not sit before his judge, and you are my judge.” 
And then she looked up, and the tears began to gather to her 
eyes, and the muscles of her white throat worked, and a sort 
of sob seemed to choke her utterance, — and the next instant 
she was at Mrs. Chudleigh^s feet, and her face was hidden in 
her lap, and the elder woman could feel the passionate heav- 
ings of her breast. 

“ My dear, my dear, this will never do !” she began in 
gentle reproof, putting her hand on the girPs head and trying 
to raise her, but Joan resisted with all her strength. “This 
will do neither of us any good.” 

“I will not move until you have forgiven me ! Oh, I can 
see how angry you are ! You have never looked at me like 
that before, xmd I cannot bear it ! I think it will break my 
heart if you do not forgive me ! I love you so, and now you 
will tell me that you can never trust me again !” 

“ Will you sit down quietly and hear what I have to say ?” . 
But she might as well have spoken to the wind, — only a sob 
answered her. 

“ You are so good yourself, that you cannot understand how 
a poor girl can be so bad, but indeed — indeed — I never meant 


‘‘iVro, NOT TOO LATE, MY CHILDy 


211 


to be wicked. I was so unhappy and I wanted to be free, and 
there was no other way than this, and I knew people often 
changed their names, and I never thought about consequences, 
and how you would all think I had deceived you. I know 
now what remorse means, and what Esau felt ‘when he 
found no room for repentance.^ I would undo it all if I 
could, but it is too late.” 

“No, not too late, my child, but it is not to me you ought to 
kneel.” Then Joan lifted her head slowly, and fixed her 
mournful eyes on Mrs. Chudleigh’s face ; their appealing sor- 
row touched her more than any words. 

“ You mean my husband ? you are thinking of Ivan ? Well, 
I should have been at his feet long ago if he had been less 
hard to me. You are angry with me, and justly too, and yet 
you can speak gently, you do not keep me at a distance with 
the blackness of your frown. I love to be here ; it makes me 
feel better only to hold your dress.” Then M.rs. Chudleigh 
smiled faintly and took the girPs hands between her own. 

“Joan, — shall I call you Joan? — will you listen to me, as 
though you were my daughter ?” 

“Yes, dear Mrs. Chudleigh, I will ; I will do anything, bear 
anything, if you will only forgive me, and call me Joan.” 

“ I shall hold you to that presently, but now let me ask you 
a question, for I fear you are very ignorant as well as wilful. 
Do you acknowledge Mr. Thorpe to be your true and lawful 
husband ? will you own that you are bound to him by the 
laws of God and the Church ?” 

“ Yes,” rather reluctantly. “ Of course, Ivan and I were 
married.” 

“ Then whether you love him or not, you owe him a lifers 
obedience.” And thereupon, to the girPs astonishment, she 
broke into a little homily on wifely duties. 

If the husband who had loved her so well had heard that 
flood of silvery eloquence, his purified intelligence would have 
most surely rejoiced. To Joan it was a new language, a reve- 
lation. No one had so spoken to her before as this sweet woman 
was speaking to her now. 

Were such things possible in this wicked world? Were 
there really men and women — mere flesh and blood — who 
had so conquered the old Adam within them that they walked 
through life carrying the white standard unsullied through 
the enemy^s country ? Were such purity and self-sacrifice at- 
tainable? Then, indeed, even unhappy, disappointed lives 
had their own lovely meanings. 

“ People are always blaming circumstances for what is 
often their own fault,” went on Mrs. Chudleigh. “ I have 
heard women complaining of their husbands, and mothers of 
their children, when the trouble lies in their own unhappy 
natures. I wish I were a wise woman for your sake. But I 
have daughters of my own, and mothers learn a good deal 
from their children, and God has given me a noble son, who 


212 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


has taught me many things. And I want to tell you this, 
that though we are not to blame for circumstances, yet we are 
responsible for the way we turn them to account, and that w>. 
owe duties to the human beings who share our homes. To be 
happy or unhappy may not be in your own power, but there is 
one question tnat will be demanded of you, — ‘ How have you 
done your duty to the husband whom you vowed before God to 
love, honor, and obey?^ And then it was that Joan bowed 
her head, stricken through her heart and conscience. 

should have been good if you had been my mother, 
she said, simply. And this little speech touched Mrs. Chud- 
leigh extremely. 

“Yes, but you will be good now, will you not, for I am 
going to kiss you in assurance of my forgiveness? But there 
is something you must do first, — you must put on your wed- 
ding-ring.^^ 

A painful blush came to Joanns cheek, but she made no an- 
swer, only unfastened her black lace kerchief, and drew a 
little hair chain within view, with two glittering rings at- 
tached to it. At a sign from Mrs. Chudleighshe put them on, 
— the thick gold ring with its massive keeper, — but her tears 
fell fast as she obeyed, and she seemed strangely agitated. 

“ That is the first step in the right direction, observed Mrs. 
Chudleigh ; and then she put her arms round the girl and 
kissed her forehead. “Now, Joan, you will go back to your 
husband like a brave, true-hearted wife.^^ 

“ Go back evidently shrinking at her words. “ Do you 
really mean I must go back to her and to that life, — death 
rather, for it was no life?^^ 

“ Never mind all that. There is no she in the question ; it 
lies between you and your husband. Go back. Of course you 
must go back to him if he will open his doors to you. Oh, 
Joan ! you are very young, but the young die sometimes. 
Think what it would be if death came and found you outside 
the path of duty, — how terrible would be his message, ‘ The 
Master has come, and calleth for thee^ !” 

Joan shuddered. 

“ Oh, I know I am not fit to die.^^ 

“We are none of us fit ; but I think we are more ready to 
go when we are in our right place, where He has put us. To 
leave it is to be like the sentinel leaving his post oefore he is 
relieved. Oh, I am always so sorry for people who lose their 
way, and n^er think of these things. 

“ I have never thought of them before. 

“ Then you must make up for lost time, my dear. You must 
be very humble before your husband, for your sin against him 
has been very great. If he should refuse to forgive you, you 
must just set yourself to obey him, and wait patiently until 
he shows signs of softening. Men are not like us,^^ finished 
the simple woman, “ they are more masterful ; and when 
they have the right on their side they will not stoop to a 


NOT TOO LATE, MY CHILD:' 2U 

compromise. Mr. Thorpe may feel that you have forfeited 
his trust. 

He will not forgive me ! I cannot expect him to do so 
she returned, in a low voice. “ If I were to humble myself 
ever so much, he would only turn from me. Rachel says he 
has quite ceased to love me.^^ 

Rachel may be wrong. 

“There is no hope for me — with Rachel. When you were 
talking just now, I thought I should like to try again and do 
better, but with her it would be impossible. Of course every- 
thing she says is true ; but somehow one^s faults seem magni- 
fied in that strong, hard light. She cannot make allowances 
for my undisciplined nature and imperfect education. She 
thinks I am all bad.^^ 

“ Never mind, you must be patient over this too. Remem- 
ber how much reason you have given her for her complaints. 
If I were in her place I should find it very difficult to forgive 
you for making a brother so miserable. 

Then Joan remained silent ; but a few moments afterwards 
she said, in rather a shamefaced way, — 

“ Mrs. Chudleigh, may I say something about your son?” 

Then a sudden color suffused Mrs. Chudleigh^s fair, middle- 
aged face. 

“No, my dear,” she said quietly, “ I think not.” 

“Just as you wish,” returned Joan, in a proud voice. “It 
was only because I thought you had a right to know that I 
wished to tell you.” And then she softened, and her beauti- 
ful eyes had their misty look again. “ Oh ! I must tell you 
how good he is. Once or twice when he was talking to me I 
thought he was more like an angel than a man. He did not 
think of himself, only of me, wanting me to be good. That 
is how the angels feel, do they not ? I — I have such a pain 
here,” pressing her hands to her heart, “when I think that 
perhaps I have caused him trouble too.” 

“My son is a good man,” returned Mrs. Chudleigh, with 
dignity ; “ things will not hurt him long. God will take care 
of that ; you must leave all that, and think only how you are 
to be reconciled to your husband.” And then she rose, and 
bidding the girl gently go to her room and think it all out 
quietly on her knees, “for it is there we learn to bear our 
troubles, Joan,” she finished, she went slowly and sadly 
down-stairs. 

Sadly, because it was of her boy she was thinking, and not 
of poor repentant Joan. “Is it any wonder?” she said to 
herself. “With all her faults, how can any one help loving 
her? My heart went out to her in a moment. Launcelot is 
right ; she is as ignorant and innocent as a child. No one has 
taught her anything. Poor thing ! poor young thing ! And 
he would have understood her and made her happy.” And 
then she blamed herself for these thoughts. “What am I 
thinking about? and there is that ill-used husband to be con- 


214 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


sidered. Oh ! he must forgive her. We can none of us stand 
seeing Joan unhappy. 

On entering the dining-room she was somewhat surprised 
to find Launcelot walking restlessly up and down the long 
room. Directly he caught sight of her he hurried up to her. 

Well, Madella?^^ in an inquiring tone ; and there was no 
mistaking the anxiety visible on his face. 

You were right, she answered, quietly. “ After all, I did 
not find it difficult to forgive her.” Then he gave her a grate- 
ful look, and as the little girls just then made their appear- 
ance, nothing more passed between them. 

But later in the evening they had a long talk together as 
they paced up and down the terrace, with the moonlight 
making every furze-bush visible on the common, while the 
sweet fragrance of a thousand fiowers came refreshingly from 
the garden ; and though their lips were sealed then and for 
ever on one subject, what eloquence was in that silence ! 

It was well for Launcelot that at this period of heart-loneli- 
ness and inward desolation, when all the fair dreams of his 
manhood lay shattered around him, this womanly sympathy 
had power to comfort him. 

Mrs. Chudleigh was not a strong-minded woman. Her 
children never heard her say clever things. She did not read 
much, nevertheless her infiuence was great with them. Her 
grown-up sons respected the simple goodness that seemed to 
surround her with an atmosphere of peace. A loving heart 
had taught her the secret of sympathy. She knew when to 
speak and when to be silent. 

She listened with deep interest to Launcelot^s account of 
his interview with Rachel Thorpe, and then they talked to- 
gether very solemnly of the painful ordeal of the morrow. 

“ I wish I could spare you that, Launce,” she said, wistfully. 
“ You do not know how I am blaming myself for all that has 
happened ; your dear father always said I was an injudicious 
woman, and indeed I feel he was right.” 

“Madella !” 

“ Indeed, Launce, I do feel that you have a right to be angry 
with me.” 

** It is a right I have no desire to use, Madella. We are too 
much to each other ; we cannot afford to be angry. What 
should I do without you now ? No mother could be more to 
me than you are.” 

“My dearest boy !” 

“You must-not trouble yourself about a past mistake. I 
think our mistakes and failures are often turned to good even 
in this world. What does a little pain and difficulty matter 
if we can only put Mrs. Thorpe in her rightful place again?” 
And after a little more such talk they separated, and Mrs. 
Chudleigh went up to Joanns room. She felt she could not rest 
until she knew whether the girl were asleep. 

She found her lying wide awake, and, though the room was 


“iV'O NOT TOO LATE, MY CHILD^^ 215 

dark, she knew at once by her voice that she had been weep- 
ing. 

“ My dear, it is twelve o^clock, and you are not asleep 

** How can I sleep she returned, restlessly. “ I do nothing 
but think. I go over it all again and again, and it seems to 
me as though no girl had ever been so wicked. How can 1 
expect Ivan to forgive me?^^ 

“ Hush ! I cannot let you talk now. You will make your- 
self ill,^^ returned Mrs. Chudleigh, in a soothing, motherly 
voice, as she felt with dismay the girPs burning hands and 
forehead. “ The children say you have eaten nothing. I am 
going to bring you some lemonade, and you must drink it, 
and then I shall bathe your face and hands, and perhaps you 
may fall asleep.^^ As Joan thanked her and submitted grate- 
fully to her gentle manipulations, she added quietly, “ I am 
very wakeful myself, and do not feel inclined for my bed. I 
mean to sit in this comfortable chair by the window, for 1 
have much to think about. Do not take any notice of me ; I 
do not wish to talk. Close your eyes and try to lie quiet, and 
the restlessness will pass. What is it you want, my dear?” — 
for the girl held her fast. 

“May I kiss you? Oh, how I love you !” — half hysteri- 
cally, — “ how good you are to me ! You know how dreadful 
the night is with all these thoughts, and that is why you 
stay.” 

“If you talk I must go,” she replied, gently, for she knew 
by the strained, highly-pitched voice that Joan must be 
soothed at all costs. This girl, who was always in extremes, 
was now suffering the pangs of acute remorse. 

“ Oh that I could be a child again, that I could undo the 
past !” she moaned as she fell back upon her pillows. “ Sleep ! 
Shall I ever sleep and forget !” But even as she spoke a 
strange sort of drowsiness crept over her, a quieting influence 
that seemed to lull the agony. She thought it was owing to 
the soothing presence of the good friend who watched beside 
her, but Mrs. Chudleigh knew otherwise ; she was only wait- 
ing until the sedative she had mixed in the lemonade had 
taken effect. And when in less than an hour the girPs regu 
lar breathing satisfied her that she was asleep, she quietly left 
the room. 

That long sleep saved Joan. It was late before she woke,— 
nearly noon, — and the maid who brought her coffee told her 
that the little girls had done their lessons with Mrs. Chud- 
leigh, and were now playing in the garden. 

“And if you please, ma^am,” continued Emma, looking 
very serious and round-eyed, “the mistress hopes that you 
will be quite easy about them, as they are going to drive with 
her this afternoon, and you need not trouble to come down to 
luncheon unless you feel inclined.” 

“Mrs. Chudleigh is very kind,” returned Joan, feebly, for 
she felt as though her strength were gone. Still she man- 


216 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


aged to dress herself, and when Mrs. Chudleigh came In 
search of her an hour later she found her by the school-room 
window trying to occupy herself with some needlework. 

“ Are you better, Joan ?” 

“ Yes, I think so ; thank you. I had such a beautiful sleep ; 
the pain has quite gone out of my head.” 

** That is well, but it has left you pale and weak. Now I am 
going to take the children out, and we shall not be back until 
dinner-time. I have asked Mrs. Fenwick to look after you.” 

“Does she know?” asked Joan, in rather a trembling voice. 

“The whole house knows by this time,” returned Mrs. 
Chudleigh. gravely. “ To-morrow, when the girls come back, 
I will tell them myself.” 

“ Pauline will never speak to me again !” 

“You must not say that. Pauline is young, and of course 
she will be much shocked. She is so absolutely true, that 
truth seems indispensable to her. You must not mind if she 
be hard at first in her judgment.” 

“ Oh, no, no ! I deserve hardness. You must not ask her to 
be kind to me. I know we can never be friends again ;” but 
to this Mrs. Chudleigh made no reply. She knew her young 
daughter too well to expect a charitable estimate of Joanns 
conduct. Bee would be less severe than Pauline ; her uncom- 
promising honesty never could comprehend any dereliction of 
truth. “ Everybody always tells the truth, mamma,” she had 
said once when quite a little girl ; “ only wicked people tell 
lies, and none of them go to heaven,” and she had scarcely 
modified her views on this point. 

Joan did not try to deceive herself. She knew she had for- 
feited the good opinion of all these good friends, — ^the Miss 
Rossiter they loved and trusted had never really existed. 

“ I should not mind being so unhappy if I could only undo 
It all,” she thought ; and again those pathetic, heart-searching 
wor(is came to her mind, “ He found no place for repentance, 
though he sought it carefully with tears.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

IN THE STUDIO. 

** Love exlsts^ot without hope, but mine was as nearly allied to de- 
spair as that of a sailor swimming for his life.”— Talisman. 

Launcelot had given orders that Mr. Thorpe should be 
brought at once to the studio and that coffee should be served 
there. When his friend was announced, he put down his 
paper and greeted him with his accustomed cordiality, and 
Mr. Thorpe noticed nothing unusual in his manner. 


IN THE STUDIO, 


217 


“Your peremptorily-worded note rather frightened me/^ 
he observed, cheerfully ; “ * pressing business on which you 
needed my opinion.^ That was pretty strong. I had a paper 
to finish on the minor American novelists, but I thought I 
would spare you an hour, and make it up by a little less sleep. 
What^s in the wind, Chudleigh ? Now 1 come to look at you, 
you donT seem quite up to the mark.^’ 

“Oh, yes. I am pretty fit, thank you.^^ 

“Nothing really wrong, I hope?^^ 

“ Well, it is rather an upsetting business altogether ; but we 
will come to that presently. Take a cup of coffee after your 
walk, Thorpe. I am sorry if I have put you to any inconven- 
ience, but there was no time to be lost.^^ 

“ Nothing wrong about investments, I hope ? You are rather 
an unpractical fellow. Rachel says your prot^g^s are like lo- 
custs, and will eat up all your substance. I fancy I am in the 
position to give you advice, for I have come into a tidy little 
fortune since I saw you.” 

“Not really?” 

“ Yes, a certain elderly relative has departed this life and 
left me his little all. Oh, it will not seem much to a million- 
aire like you, but for a struggling literary man seven hundred 
a year means riches.” 

“ My dear fellow, I am so glad ! No man deserves good for- 
tune more.” 

“ And no man cares for it less, voild touV^ Then Launcelot 
looked up rather sharply. 

“ Yes, I understand ; but you will change your mind about 
that. You work too hard, Thorpe. There will be no need for 
burning the midnight oil now.” 

“There never has been, in the way you put it ; if I work 
hard it is because I have no interest outside my work. I begin 
to understand why some men get into such grooves : they go 
on from day to day like mere machines, — rather rusty ones, 
too, — they have no other life.” 

“ Oh, you must change all that now,” returned Launcelot, 
absently, and then he looked at his friend, who was enjoying 
his coflfee leisurely and moralizing over it. Mr. Thorpe looked 
better this evening ; his clever, well-cut face had a more ani- 
mated expression. Launcelot^s society always roused and in- 
terested him. 

“Yes, we must change all that,” repeated Launcelot, as he 
rose from the chair, and walking to the other end of the room 
began lighting two lamps held by bronze figures. Mr. Thorpe 
leaned back in his chair and watched him. 

‘ ‘ Do we need all this illumination ? But perhaps you intend 
to show me your picture. Do you mean to say it is finished 
after all?” 

“No, but I should like to have your opinion for all that. 
Wait until I have arranged the light ; there is no hurry ;” but 
Launcelot^s hand shook a little as he uncovered the easel, and 

K 19 


218 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


the beautiful fresh face of his Elizabeth seemed to flash from 
the canvas. But Mr. Thorpe did not notice his nervousness, 
he was looking round the magnificent room with undisguised 
admiration. 

“ This is how you rich artists live,^^ he observed, sarcastically, 
“ like art princes. Those hangings are Venetian, are they not ? 
That cabinet looks to me priceless. I ought to see these things 
by daylight. I confess I have a weakness myself for old oak. 
You have managed badly. You ought to have invited me to 
afternoon tea, and received me in your old velvet coat, — your 
conventional war-paint does not seem to suit your surround- 
ings.” 

“ Oh, I have just come from the dinner-table, and have not 
changed my coat;” and then Launcelot added hastily, “If 
you will excuse me for a moment, Thorpe, I shall be glad to 
get into something more comfortable, as we are not going into 
the drawing-room, and you can look round you while I am 
gone,” and as Mr. Thorpe nodded acquiescence Launcelot left 
the room. 

“ That is the best plan after all,” he thought, as he walked 
through the glass corridor. “ What a fool one is at this sort of 
thing ! I felt it was impossible to begin the subject.” 

Launcelot had acted on a momentary impulse in thus ab- 
senting himself, but when ten minutes later he returned in 
his old brown velvet coat, he knew he had done the right 
thing; he felt it as he stood on the threshold and saw his friend 
standing motionless before the easel, a black rigid figure be- 
tween the two bronze slaves holding the pure white globes of 
light in their uplifted arms. At the sound of the opening 
door, Mr. Thorpe half turned. “ Chudleigh, come here !” and 
there was something changed and hoarse in his voice. Launce- 
lot obeyed, and stood silently beside him. 

Mr. Thorpe pointed stiffly to the canvas. “What does 
that mean?” he asked. “Where — where — have you seen 
her ?” 

“You recognize it. then?” was the quiet rejoinder. 

“ Recognize it !” ne repeated, with rising excitement in his 
voice. “Are there two faces like that? Could any other 
woman look like that ? Do you suppose I do not know my 
own wife? That is Joan I— Joan !■— as I stand here a living 
man.” 

“You are right,” returned Launcelot ; “ the lady who did 
me the honor to sit for that central figure is Mrs. Thorpe.” 

“ What !”^urning on him with a look terrible to see on any 
man^s face. “ Do you mean that my wife has condescendea 
to be an artistes model, — that — Joan — ” but Launcelot would 
not let him finish ; he took his arm with a grave pitying look 
and led him away. 

“ Don’t, Thorpe ; it is desecration even to hint at such things 
before that picture. I should have thought that that face 
would have rebuked even an unworthy thought, but you are 


IN THE STUDIO, 


219 


excited and unlike yourself. Sit down ; before I can explain 
matters, I must ask you a question. Where do you believe 
your wife to be at the present moment?^' 

At Malvern.*^ 

“ Indeed ? Can you vouch for that fact 

“ She^s living by her own wish as companion to an invalid 
lady, Mrs. Weston of Roseneath.^^ 

“ Mrs. Weston is dead ; has been dead for more than a year. 
She died soon after Mrs. Templeton. 

“ Impossible ! You are laboring under some mistake. My 
sister would have been the first person to be acquainted with 
Mrs. Weston^s death ; she was in constant correspondence 
with Joan.” 

“We must leave that for the present. I dare not enter into 
that part of the subject now. I want to convince you of the 
fact that for the last year you have known nothing of your 
wife^s movements, — that I am better informed with them than 
yourself.” 

“What on earth are you driving at, Chudleigh ? Speak out, 
mam if you have anything to tell me !” 

“ I have much to tell you. In the first place, Mrs. Thorpe 
is under this roof.” 

“ Good heavens !” 

“ She has been living under this roof for the last year.” 

“ Chudleigh, one or other of us must be mad ! God give me 
patience to sit and hear you !” 

“ He will, Thorpe, He will,” returned Launcelot, in a moved 
voice, for the gray, drawn lines round Mr. Thorpe^s mouth, 
and the sudden haggardness of his look, spoke of strongly 
controlled feeling. “Will you try to listen to me without in- 
terruption while I tell you everything from the beginning? 
Remember it is painful for me as well as for you, for until the 
day before yesterday I had no idea that the lady living in our 
house as SybiPs governess was Mrs. Thorpe.” 

“What did she call herself?” 

“Miss Rossiter.” Then Mr. Thorpe uttered a low groan, 
and v^hen Launcelot looked at him next his face was shielded 
by his hand. 

“ Go on ; I will not interrupt you,” he said, hoarsely. 

“ It was rather more than a year ago, — I was at the Italian 
lakes, I remember,— when I received a letter from my step- 
mother telling me she had engaged a new governess for 
Sybil. Stay, I have the letter here ; let me read exactly what 
she said : ‘ You will be glad to hear, my dear Launce, that 
I have been at last successful and have secured just the 
person I want for Sybil. I have been several times to Harley 
Street, but without any result, until I saw Miss Rossiter. 
She is an extremely engaging young person, very pleasant 
in manner, and seems full of life and vivacity. She has a 
lovely voice and plays exceedingly well, and seems ladylike 
as well as accomplished. Bee was charmed with her, and 


220 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


I must confess I liked her at once, she looked so frank and 
good-humored. She told me at once that she had never had 
any pupils, as her only situation had been with an invalid 
lady with whom she lived as companion, but as this Mrs. 
Weston was dead, and she had recently lost her aunt who 
had brought her up, she wished to try her hand at teaching, 
as she was fond of children. There was a little difficulty 
about references, owing to Mrs. Weston^s death, but I wrote 
to Mrs. Maclean, who lives near Malvern, and begged her to 
make all necessary inquiries. I think she saw the house- 
keeper, I am not sure, but, anyhow, Mrs. Maclean says Mrs. 
Weston was one of the best-known people in Malvern, and 
though she always thought her companion, whom she had 
met once or twice, was a young married lady separated from 
her husband, she supposed she was mixing her up in her mind 
with a previous companion, but she was a very ladylike per- 
son. I am afraid you will be vexed with me, Launce, for 
acting so impulsively, but when I saw Miss Rossiter again I 
engaged her, and she is coming to us next week.' 

“ She came," went on Launcelot, putting the envelope in 
his pocket again, “and every letter I received contained glow- 
ing accounts of the new governess. Pauline had struck up a 
friendship with her, and Sybil was a different child under her 
wise management. When I returned home, and saw Miss 
Rossiter, I confess that I blamed my step-mother for indiscre- 
tion and want of worldly wisdom. I considered Miss Rossiter 
far too handsome for her position. I thought her singularly 
fascinating, and feared that my brothers would think so too, 
but my disapproval made very little impression on my step- 
mother; both she and the girls were infatuated with Miss 
Rossiter. After a time I began to disapprove less myself. In 
^ite of her frankness and vivacity, I soon saw that Miss 
Rossiter appeared perfectly unconscious of the fact that she 
was a young and lovely woman. She neither seemed to ex- 
pect nor demand admiration. She gave men no encouragement 
to approach her, and I do not believe the boldest of them ever 
ventured to address a compliment to her. It was this pro- 
priety of behavior that gave my step-mother such perfect 
confidence in her. I remember she once told me that Miss 
Rossiter was as dignified as though she were a married 
woman." 

There was a pause here, as though Launcelot hoped for 
some interruption, but none came. Mr. Thorpe's face was 
still shieldedTrom the light ; he did not move or change his 
attitude. Launcelot turned a shade paler, his manner be- 
came agitated and irresolute, — he had come to a part of his 
story where he was in danger of breaking down. 

“Thorpe — " he began, and then stopped, “you have a 
right to know : it shall be told, if you wish it, though at the 
expense of such pain as even you cannot guess." Then the 
other man slowly raised his head and looked at him ; those 


IN THE STUDIO, 


221 


cold, steady eyes seemed to read Launcelot through and 
through. 

he said, “you need tell me nothing, Chudleigh. I 
can understand for myself. Whatever happened, you were 
not to blame. I can trust the man who once stood between 
me and death. 

“Thank you,^^ was all that Launcelot could say, but he 
walked away to the window to recover himself. He stood for 
a moment crushing down the pain that seemed to suffocate 
him, while the dewy freshness of the evening air fanned his 
hot temples refreshingly. If he had stood there a moment 
longer he would have seen the gleam of a white gown moving 
between the dark shrubs. As he turned away a tall, shadowy 
figure moved nearer to the window, as though drawn by some 
irresistible magnet, and a sweet frightened face in its black 
lace hood leaned softly against the framework. “If I can 
only see him without being seen thought Joan, her heart 
palpitating at her own daring, and then Launcelot^s voice 
reached her ear and held her spell-bound. 

“ You must not blame her, either. If you are her husband, 
you must know how good she really is. At my first indis- 
creet word she told me the whole truth, — that I must never 
speak to her in that way again, that she had never thought of 
such a thing happening, and then she begged my pardon, 
poor child, and seemed almost beside herself with shame and 
penitence. * I am the wife of a good man,^ that is what she 
said to me.^^ 

“ Did she give you any reason for her extraordinary conduct 
in passing herself off as an unmarried woman 

“ Yes ; we had a long talk, and she told me everything as 
she has since told my step-mother. She trusted me as though 
I were her brother ; she owned frankly that her married life 
had been very unhappy. She had the impression that her 
husband had never loved her : that he considered her pres- 
ence burthensome to him, and she also owned that her sister- 
in-law had made her existence miserable. 

“ As she has told both of us many times. 

“I wish you could have heard her every word ; I think in 
that case your anger would be less intense. I am not defend- 
ing her course of deception, — I am the last person to do so, — 
but I assure you, Thorpe, that though she has treated you as 
few men have been treated, she has acted more on a childish 
impulse to free herself from all trammels than from any delib- 
erate intention to do wrong. 

“ You can say this to my face?^^ 

“ Indeed I can. Of all girls she has been most ignorant and 
wilful, but few women have repented as she will repent. She 
is utterly crushed beneath her own self-condemnation ; ‘ In- 
deed, I never meant to be wicked,^ that was the whole burthen 
of her cry.^^ 

“She has duped you, Chudleigh I You actually speak as 

19 ^ 


222 


ONLY THE GOVERNESIS, 


though you think Joan more sinned against than sin- 
ning 

“ Will you bear with me if I say that I do think so? — that I 
think this poor girl — for she is only a girl in years— has met 
with scant tenderness ? Do you mean to tell me that you do 
not think your sister has been hard on her ? that she has not 
exaggerated her faults instead of trying to hide them from 
her husband’s eyes ? You have talked to me yourself, Thorpe ; 
you have owned that you knew her to be an undisciplined, 
ignorant child when you married her, and yet you could leave 
her to be tutored and lectured by your sister ! Would any 
proud-spirited woman submit to such treatment ? Would any 
uncontrolled temper brook it for a moment?” 

“ Did Joan tell you that she made her husband’s life so in- 
tolerable that he could have prayed for death to free him?” 

“ Yes, she told me that, ana she lamented that all her efforts 
to do better were misrepresented and misunderstood. She 
felt as though her heart were slowly breaking, as though she 
must die or go mad, and then it was you gave her her free- 
dom.” 

** I always meant her to come back.” 

“ She did not think so. The idea had grown upon her that 
your love was a thing of the past, that you were thankful to 
let her go ; and then it was that the temptation to set herself 
really free came into her mind, and she took off her wedding- 
ring and called herself Miss Rossiter.” 

^‘Oh, she spoke the truth when she told me that she would 
soon come to hate me ! This last insult has pro ved it to 
me.” 

She does not hate you, Thorpe, but she fears you as no 
woman ought to fear her husband. She speaks of you with 
respect. I am not sure that there is not a deeper feeling at 
the bottom, — all her bitterness, all her hard sayings, are against 
your sister.” 

And yet Rachel was good to her.” 

I do not think Mrs. Thorpe would endorse that opinion. 
She looked upon her as a hard keeper, as one who sowed dis- 
sension between her and her husband. I am your sister’s 
friend as well as yours, Thorpe, and yet I dared to tell her to 
her face that she was wrong in remaining under your roof.” 

One moment, Chudleigh,— we are talking about Rachel, — 
how is it that she remained in ignorance of Mrs. Weston’s 
death?” Then, as Launcelot quietly explained the matter, 
toning it down as well as the truth permitted, Mr. Thorpe’s 
face grew grayer and more haggard. “Do you mean that 
Rachel has deceived me? Oh, I know what you mean” — as 
Launcelot was about to interrupt him — “that she meant it 
for my good, but that is all nothing to me. I could sooner 
believe that the sun would not rise again to-morrow than that 
Rachel could deceive me !” 

“My dear friend, we are none of us infallible. God forbid 


IN THE STUDIO, 223 

that we should cast stones at one another but Mr. Thorpe 
did not seem to hear him. 

“ I was lonely enough when Joan left me ; but at least I had 
my sister. What was my loneliness then compared to my 
solitude now 

The words seemed forced out of his lips, as though in spite 
of his proud reticence his pain must find vent. Perhaps the 
grave sympa thy of the man who had been like a brother to 
him moved him to speech. 

‘‘ Perhaps you were right in much that you have said,^^ he 
went on. I will take my share of blame. I was often hard 
on Joan. I did not make allowances for her youth and im- 
perfect education, but if I wronged her I have been sorely 
punished, and what has my sin been compared to hers 

“ Thorpe, what made you marry her?^^ 

“Because, like a fool, I fell in love with her. Ah, I grant 
you she never knew the extent of her power. I was a shy, 
diffident lover : it was difficult for me to give expression to 
my feelings. She often repulsed me and threw me back, but, 
as her husband, I worshipped her, and in spite of the black- 
ness of her sin against me the misery is — I love her still.^^ 

A faint, tremulous sigh answered these words, but neither 
of the men heard it. 

“ She has complained to you of my coldness, but if she 
could only have read my thoughts ! How I watched for one 
kind look or word to tell me that my wife was not wholly in- 
different to me ! But she only took pains to show me that she 
hated me. She made my very love for her the means of tor- 
turing me. She would provoke me into saying bitter things, 
and then rage at me for my coldness and cruelty. Chudleigh, 
it was hell on earth I I sometimes wonder how 1 lived through 
it.'' 

“ I can understand how bad things were." 

“It was simply a maddening life for a man to lead. And 
yet a very little would have satisfied me. I did not ask a 
greater sacrifice from Joan than many a one has had to ask 
from his wife. ‘ I have a sister living with me to whom I owe 
everything ; she is dependent on me, and I am not a rich 
man, and cannot aflferd another establishment. Do you think 
you can live happily together as sisters for my sake?' that is 
what I said to Joan before I married her, and her answer was 
frank and simple : ^ I have never had a sister, and I think it 
will be nice to nave Bachel with us, for she will teach me all 
your ways ;' and yet before six months were over she was 
telling me that either Rachel or she must go." 

“ It was a difficult position, as you say." 

“ I held firm, and I do not think even now I was wrong. 
I said that my sister should never leave my roof unless by her 
own free will, — and you know the rest ; there is nothing more 
to be said." 

“Only one word, Thorpe. Your wife must come back to 


224 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


you at once. Remember, you are responsible before God for 
that poor girl but a flash of the gray eyes warned Launce- 
lot that he was treading on dangerous ground. 

“ I would have suffered no other man to say the things to 
me that you have said to-night, but even you can go too far. 
No one shall interfere between my wife and me. Rachel will 
have to answer to me for what she has done. It is for Joan to 
ask my forgiveness ; I will listen to no other pleading — 

“ But if I do beg your forgiveness, Ivan, if I say that I am 
really and truly sorry — and Joan stood before them, still 
in her little black lace hood, looking at them piteously, with 
the tears rolling down her pale cheeks. “Oh, please do not 
be angry with me because 1 stopped and listened and she 
clasped her hands and looked at her husband. But he stood 
with averted eyes as though suddenly turned to stone ; only 
Launcelot heard his labored breathing, and gave him an 
anxious glance, as he prepared to leave the room, but a sharp 
voice recalled him. 

“ Where are you going, Chudleigh ? If you have ever been 
my friend act as one now, and do not leave me. Tell my wife 
that I cannot— that I will not — speak to her to-night. 

“ Mrs. Thorpe, you hear what he says ; will you be good 
enough to leave us? I think your husband is ill.^^ 

“ Do you really wish me to go, Ivan?^^ 

“ Yes.^^ But she still lingered. 

“You will not even look at me?^^ 

“No,^^ moving his dry lips with difficulty, “ I will neither 
speak to you nor look at you to-night. If you are really sorry, 
you will obey me once as your husband. To-morrow I will 
hear you, not now.^^ 

“Very well,^^ she returned, humbly, “but to-morrow will 
not be to-night. You are making a mistake, Ivan, but you 
shall be obeyed, and she turned away, bending her head 
gravely as Launcelot opened the door. “Go to Madella,” he 
whispered, “and I will look after him,” but she did not 
answer ; only as she looked at him there was a curious, almost 
a triumphant expression in her large soft eyes, and she looked 
more proud than ashamed of her impulsive action. 

But Launcelot had no time to question the meaning of 
Joanns look. He poured out some water and brought it to his 
friend, who took the glass with a shaking hand. 

“ It was only giddiness : it has passed ; but I think it would 
have killed me to speak to her. I must think over things 
quietly, andsee what is to be done. I will do nothing, promise 
nothing, to-night.” 

“ You will let me see you home ?” 

“ Pooh, nonsense ! I am not ill ; the walk back in the cool 
air will do me good, — no, no more talk to-night, Chudleigh — ” 

“Well!” 

“You heard her ask me to look at her?” 

“Yea” 


IN THE STUDIO. 


225 


“ I did not dare to raise my eyes ; the very sound of her 
voice was enough for me. If I haa looked I must have 
opened my arms to her, hearing her speak in that way.^^ 

“ Why do you tell me this now, unless you mean me to call 
her back — may I, Thorpe 

“No! — a thousand times no! I am glorying in my own 
prudence ; she shall not force forgiveness out of me like that. 
Bhe must earn it first, and humble herself before me.^^ 

“ I think the other way would have been more generous. 

“ But I am not a generous man, and I will not consent to 
any hollow truce. She must convince me of her penitence, 
she must give me some proof that will satisfy me, or there will 
be no reconciliation.^^ 

“ Oh, go your own way,^^ returned Launcelot, half angrily, 
half sadly. He knew that he could not alter the man^s nature. 
One wora, one look, and the erring wife would have been at 
his feet, and all the miserable past would have been wiped 
out. 

“ Oh, good Lord, how do we even venture to take those 
words upon our lips?^^ he thought ; “is there one of us who 
knows how to forgive a brother's trespass and his noble 
heart grew sick within him, for Joan had said to-morrow 
would not be to-day, and her unquiet, restless soul might 
have set itself in bitterness before the husband and wife 
met again. 

“Yes, and my way will not please you,^^ returned Mr. 
Thorpe. “We are different men, and the same course of ac- 
tion would not be possible to us, but I mean to do my best for 
Joan.^^ Then he said good-night, and went out into the sum- 
mer night, but as he walked across the dark common and 
down the long hill, a sweet voice broken with sobs seemed to 
ring in his ears. “ But if I beg your forgiveness, Ivan, if I 
say that I am really and truly sorry, — during all their un- 
happy married life nad he ever heard her speak in that voice 
before ? 

But Launcelot^s face had a cloud on it as he re-entered the 
studio, and stood for a moment before his picture, as though 
unwilling to cover it up. 

“ It is not finished, but I shall never touch it again, he said 
to himself. “ It is my best picture. If I live for fifty years, I 
shall not paint another as good. To-morrow I shall send it to 
him ; it is his by right. 

And then as he looked at the green meads where mellich 
groweth, which he had painted with such delight, and at the 
frightened cattle huddled up into a heap, as the big advancing 
wave flowed over the reedy Lindis^ shore, and then at the 
pale face and strained eyes of the sweet-faced mother as she 
pressed her babes to her bosom, a sudden sob in his throat 
seemed to choke him, and he sat down and covered his face 
with his hands, and the echo of mournful thoughts woke the 
old refrain again : 

P 


226 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


“That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, 

1’hat ebbe swept out the flocks to sea, 

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 

To manye more than myne and mee : 

But each will mourn his own (she saith) 

And sweeter woman ne’er drew breath 
Than my sonne’s wife Elizabeth.” 

“ ‘ A fatal ebbe and flow,^ indeed, he thought, when at last 
he extinguished the lights and crept wearily to nis bed. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

“JOAN, COME BACK.^^ 

* The time once was when 1 might have learned to love that man.”— - 
Rob Roy, 

“ Cool as an icicle and determined as the rock it hangs upon.”— -Anns 
of Oeiersiein, 

Joan would have hesitated in complying with Launcelot^s 
injunction, but at that moment Mrs. Uhudleigh, thinking she 
heard voices, opened the drawing-room door. Her surprise 
amounted to consternation when she perceived the girl stand- 
ing in the glass corridor that led out of the studio. 

“ My dear, will j^ou come in here for a moment? I must 
speak to you. Surely that was not my son^s voice that I 
heard just now?^^ 

“Indeed it was, Mrs. Chudleigh. He was bidding me 
come to you and then she said, in a queer choked voice, “ I 
have been in the studio, I have seen Ivan, but he would not 
let me stay. I could not get him to look at me or speak to me, 
and so I came away.’^ 

“ Joan, I cannot believe my ears. Surely — but no — it is im- 
possible — you could not have entered your husband's presence 
unless he sent for you !" 

“There, I have shocked you again, and when I looked at 
Mr. Chudleigh I could see he was shocked too. Why is it I 
must always do the wrong thing, that I never have strength 
to resist the moment's impulse ? I think I am the worst girl 
that ever lived, — and yet I meant no harm," and here one or 
two tears felir which made Mrs. Chudleigh relax from her 
unwonted dignity. 

“ I never meant to scold you, Joan, but I am afraid you have 
been extremely injudicious. Will you tell me what you were 
doing down-stairs at so late an hour?" 

“ Oh, yes, I will tell you everything. I could not stop in the 
school-room quietly ; the thought that Ivan was in the house, 
that he and Mr. Chudleigh were talking about me, made me 
so restless that I could not settle to any employment. I felt a 


*^JOAN, COME BACK,^^ 


227 


longing to be out in the air, movement of some kind seemed 
absolutely necessary to me, so I went into the garden. But 
even when I was there I could not keep away from the house, 
and the lighted window of the studio seemed to draw me as a 
moth is drawn towards the flame of a candle. I felt a strange 
desire to see Ivan without his perceiving me in return, but 
when I came close up to the window, I could hear Mr. Chud- 
leigh speaking, and what he said was so beautiful that I could 
not help listening, and Ivan answered him, and I stayed. 

“ My dear, did not your conscience tell you that it was very 
dishonorable to steal your husband^s confidence in that way ? 
His words were not meant to reach your ears.^^ 

*‘I never thought of that, — I never do think, you know. 
Of course it was wrong, but all the same I am thankful I did 
it. What do you think, Mrs. Chudleigh?^^ — and a proud light 
came into her eyes, — “I heard Ivan say — yes, they were his 
very words — that he had always ‘loved me,^ and that he 
‘ loved me still. ^ 

“You did not deserve such a consolation.^^ 

“Ah, but you see he said it, and Ivan never says what he 
does not mean. He never meant me to know it, he thinks I 
have forfeited all right to his affections, but there it is, he 
cannot help himself, and I know now that all his coldness 
was assumed to punish me.^^ 

“ I am afraid all this will only add to Mr. Thorpe^ s dis- 
pleasure. Men are very sensitive on these points of honor.^^ 

“Yes, I know that, and that is why I owned myself in the 
wrong. I wished Ivan to know what I had done, I went into 
the studio and begged for his forgiveness. I did not mind 
Mr. Chudleigh being there,— I never thought of him, — I only 
wanted Ivan to look at me and see how sorry I was, but he 
would not speak to me, and then Mr. Chudleigh said my 
husband was ill and I must come away.^^ 

“Was he ill?” 

“ He looked very pale, old, and gray ; I think I startled him. 
When he told me to go, of course I obeyed him. I made up 
my mind as I listened to him outside the window that he 
should never have reason to complain of my disobedience 
again.” 

“ But surely he will not refuse to see you?” 

“ No, he is coming to-morrow ; that is his way, never to do 
anything without due consideration. He would not let me 
take him by storm, though one relenting word would have 
earned my lifers gratitude. He will go home and think about 
it all, and when he has measured the depths of my iniquities, 
he will decide on the duration and severity of my punish- 
ment. If he forgives at all, it will not be yet. When we 
meet to-morrow I shall waste no entreaties on him ; he will 
have armed himself against me beforehand. That is why I 
said to-morrow was not to-day.” 

“ My dear, if this is the spirit in which you intend to meet 


228 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


him, I can hardly believe that any reconciliation will be 
possible. Surely you will confess that you have done 
wrong 

“ Oh, yes ; I will do as much as that, and if he will give me 
the opportunity I will own that I am sorry. I will even tell 
him tnat for the future I will obey him.^’ 

“Are you sure that your purpose will hold good, Joan, that 
you will really submit yourself to him?” 

“Yes, I have promised you and Mr. Chudleigh to be good, 
and I will not go back from my promise. I dare say Ivan 
will make my life wretched. When I think of his power over 
me I am horribly frightened. Why do girls marry, I wonder ? 
But all the same, I mean to obey him.” 

“ I am glad to hear you say this ; my son will be glad too. 
But, Joan, I must say one thing to you ; I believe you have 
been deceiving yourself, — in your heart you are really fond of 
your husband.” 

A burning flush crossed the girPs face as Mrs. Chudleigh 
spoke, her head drooped suddenly as though she had been 
convicted of some fault. 

“There was a time when I could have loved him,” she re- 
turned, tremulously, “ but that time has long passed. There 
have been moments when I almost hated him. People do not 
feel like that when they are fond of a person.” 

“ I don^t know,” observed Mrs. Chudleigh, doubtfully. She 
had a dim notion that there was something defective in Joanns 
reasoning ; only her own experience and knowledge of human 
nature were not deep enough to verify her instinctive feeling 
that Joan was not perfectly indifferent to her husband, and 
when she spoke to Launcelot the next day, he endorsed her 
opinion. 

“ Yes, she cares for him ; I expect she has always cared. It 
is that that has made her so unconscious of other men^s ad- 
miration, but she never believed until last evening in his 
affection for her. Probably his coldness has goaded her to 
desperation ; then his despotic will has fretted her beyond en- 
durance, but he sees his mistake now.” 

“ And he is coming this afternoon ?” 

“Yes, he will be here about six. The girls are not coming 
back until lat^ so they will not be interrupted. If I were you 
I should tell Fenwick to show him into the morning-room, 
and then you can send her to him.” 

“ I hope her courage will not fail at the last moment.” 

“Oh no, there is no fear of that; she is no coward. The 
only fear is that the interview may be productive of no good 
at all. Still, it is no use troubling ourselves beforehand. You 
and I have done our parts, and now we must leave it in other 
hands.” And so saying he went away, as though to put a 
st(H) to the conversation. 

Joan took her usual place at the luncheon-table and made a 
brave effort to appear at her ease, but, though the children 


^^JOANy COME BACK.^^ 


226 


talked, there was very little said by their elders. Only when 
Sybil begged her governess to take them into the town to buy 
something for Freckles^s birthday, her mother interposed and 
suggested that Emma should accompany them instead. 

“You will come into the drawing-room and keep me com- 
pany, my dear, will you not?^^ she observed very kindly to 
Joan, for she was unwilling to trust the girl out of her sight, 
and Joan followed her reluctantly. 

But there was not much conversation between them as they 
sat busying themselves over their work. Joan was rather 
silent and unapproachable; she answered Mrs. Chudleigh^s 
gentle remarks by monosyllabic replies, and Mrs. Chudleigh 
had sufficient tact to leave her to herself. 

But she puzzled herself once not a little over the girPs 
changed manner and appearance; she had never seen her 
look as she did to-day. Joan had never worn black before, 
but this afternoon she had put on a black gown of some soft, 
silky material, and the narrow muslin edging round her 
throat made her look almost quaint in her simplicity. 

There was little doubt that the effect was studied, and that 
she wished to appear in sober garb before her offended hus- 
band, but no coquettish arrangement of colors could have 
suited her so well. Restless nights and days of weeping had 
not clouded the pure transparency of her complexion, and in 
spite of her paleness and the heavy sadness in her eyes, Mrs. 
Chudleigh thought that Joan had never looked more lovely. 
They sat in silent companionship through the greater part of 
the afternoon, and then Joan suddenly put her hand to her 
throat and started up. 

“I cannot sit any longer — I cannot! Will you let me go 
out a little,— just to the terrace and back ? I will not go out 
of your sight, if you prefer it.’^ 

“My dear, you speak as though you were a prisoner. Qc 
out by all means ; the air will do you good.^^ 

“Thank you. I do not want to be impatient, but the 
thought of what is coming seems to put my nerves on edge. 
Ivan will be terrible ! — terrible ! When I think of it I want 
to run away and hide myself. It is a sad thing when a 
woman fears her husband as I fear Ivan. I wish he could 
kill me outright instead of putting me to the slow torture 

“ My dear — my dear 

“ Oh, I do not really mean what I say, only I have worked 
myself up to such a pitch of nervousness. Please don^t 
trouble about me ; when the time comes I shall have courage 
to go to him.^^ 

And with a little laugh she opened the glass door and 
stepped out on the gravel walk. 

“Poor child ! I verily believe there is quicksilver about 
her. I never saw a more excitable temperament. She tries 
to control herself, but she has never learned the lesson of self- 
government^ and one can do nothing to help her.^^ 

20 


230 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


Poor Mrs. Chudleigh was not spending a very pleasant 
afternoon ; it was almost a relief when Fenwick at last an- 
nounced that Mr. Thorpe was in the morning-room, and 
would like to speak to his wife. 

She went through the shrubberies herself to fetch the girl, 
and sent Fenwick about his business. 

Joan caught sight of her at once, and hastened to meet 
her. 

‘‘You have come to fetch me yourself! How very kind ! 
Is my husband here? Oh, I am quite ready for him, — I will 
go to him at once.^^ 

But as she would have passed her, Mrs. Chudleigh detained 
her gently. 

“ Be very humble, Joan. Do not forget for a moment that 
he is your husband, and that he has the right to find fault 
with you,” and then she let her go. 

Joan walked straight into the morning-roon, with set, pale 
lips, and her head rather higher than usual. She bowed 
gravely to her husband as he rose and put a chair for her ; 
then motioning it aside, walked quickly to the window, and 
stood there witli her face averted and her long neck turned 
from him, and after a moment^s hesitation he followed her. 

It seemed as though speech were not possible to either of 
them. Joan seemed to hear only the agitated beating of her 
own heart, while Mr. Thorpe was only conscious that he and 
Joan were once more together, — that at any moment he 
might hear her voice, — that he could even put out his hand 
and touch her if he liked. 

“You sent for me, Ivan ?” 

If at that moment Joan had realized her power and used it, 
she would not have begged for forgiveness in vain, when ht^r 
husband's heart was aching with repressed love, and longing 
for the beautiful, wilful creature who had spoiled his life ; but 
Joan, in her shy pride, did not look at him, and so the oppor- 
tunity was lost. 

“You sent for me, Ivan, and I am here,” she repeated, in a 
voice that chilled him. 

This was not the way she had addressed him last night, 
when her voice was broken with sobs, and the reality of her 
sorrow and penitence had been evident even to him. If only 
she had stooped again to entreat him, and he could have seen 
her eyes full Df tears ! but the tide of her grief had turned, 
and had left her dry and hard. 

“ Yes, you are here, and now how am I to find words in 
which to speak to you ? how am I to tell you what you do not 
know already ? I always knew our notions of honor differed, 
but I hardly thought that even you would have deigned to 
listen to words that you knew were never meant for your ears.” 

This unexpected thrust touched her too keenly, and a rush 
of angry color answered him. 

“Ivan, how dare you insinuate that I placed myself at the 


^^JOAN, COME BACK.^* 


231 


window with the express purpose of listening to your conver- 
sation with Mr. Chudleigh ! — how dare you And then she 
stopped, and her lips trenabled. “ I beg your pardon ; I ought 
not to have spoken in that tone. You must say what you like 
to me, and I must bear it.'^ 

The apology disarmed him. 

“ Can you justify your conduct, Joan?^^ 

“No,^^ she returned, wearily, “I can justify nothing. 
Everything is wrong, and the only pity is that I was ever 
born, to be the misery of myself and other people. I did not 
mean to listen, only I heard something that touched me, and 
I could not go away, and I stopped, — and you know the rest.^^ 
“Yes ; and then you came in and asked me to forgive you. 
I wonder you had the courage. Most women would sooner 
have sunk through the floor than go out of their way to meet 
the husband they had loaded with insult. Joan, tell me one 
thing. Was it because you hated me so intensely that you 
took off your wedding-ring, and even refused to bear my 
name 

She stooped her graceful head now, as though she would 
willingly have hidden her face from his keen, reproachful 
look, and her eyes were fixed on the carpet. 

“ I did not hate you,^^ she stammered, “ but I was unhappy, 
and I wanted to be free.^^ 

“Why did you not ask me to make such freedom possible!' 
A legal separation would have given you a fair amount of 
liberty. I could not cease to be your husband, but at least I 
would not have held you to your bond like a slave. 

The intense scorn and anger in his tone were more accepta- 
ble to Joan than the cutting coldness of old. 

“I have treated you very badly, Ivan.^^ 

“ Badly ! I do not think any husband has been so ill-used 
before ; all the world will know that you left my protection 
without sufficient cause, and passed yourself off* as an unmar- 
ried woman. 

“ Yes, it was wrong, but if you only knew how I repent my 
sin ! I think it was RachePs letter that made me so desperate. 
She made me feel as though you hated me, — as though you 
would be glad to see the last of me.^^ 

“Joan, if you please, we will keep my sister^s name out of 
the conversation.^^ 

“Have I made you angry? But indeed I could not help 
mentioning her name ; you would not understand otherwise 
what led me to do such a thing. 

“I understand far too much for my own peace of mind. 
Joan, for once tell me the whole truth. Are you willing for 
us to part this afternoon, never to see each other again 
She started, and turned very pale, but that forced, hard 
voice gave no evidence of his inward agony. 

“ Oh, no she said, involuntarily, and a sort of dull gleam 
came to his eyes as he heard the words. “ I said I repented, 


232 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


Ivan, — what does repentance mean ? I do not wish for free- 
dom now ; only mischief would come of it. I am not fit to 
be trusted. 

I am thankful you have the honesty to own as much. If 
you do not wish to be free, what then, Joan?^^ 

“That is for you to say,^^ she returned, humbly. “I have 
forfeited all right to make conditions.” 

“Do you mean” — looking at her as though he could not 
believe his ears — “that if I were to tell you to come home 
with me now — this very afternoon — you would obey me?” 

“ Yes,” was the reply, but he saw her wince. “ I have made 
up my mind that I will never disobey you again. I have 
given you just cause to be angry with me, and the only atone- 
ment I can offer is to submit myself to my husband’s will.” 

He put his hand to his chest as though he were conscious 
of some pain, but there was no change in the measured slow 
tones. 

“ I am glad you know your duty at last ; God grant it may 
not be too late for you and me. But I should tell you a lie if 
I said that I forgave you, Joan ; I have tried, — all last night 
I was trying, — but the bitterness of it all was too much for 
me.” 

Then for the first time she raised her eyes, and looked at 
him, and when she saw the sombre light in his eyes, and the 
hard pinched look about his mouth, a hopelessness crept over 
her, and she saw he had spoken the truth. He was a good 
man, but he had not sufficient nobility of soul to condone the 
past ; he loved, but he did not trust her. 

“ I begin to fear that all power of forgiveness has left me ” 

“Then you must not ask me to come back,” she replied, 
sadly. “It would only be the old miserable life again; but 
this time it would be worse. I should pine and sicken in such 
a captivity, and all my good resolutions would avail me noth- 
ing. I should feel you distrusted my every look and word ; 
that in your heart you were forever reproaching me,— and 
there is Rachel ! No, Ivan, if you cannot forgive me, do net 
tell me to come back, for you know I must obey you.” 

“I never meant to ask you,” he returned, dryly, and then 
again she looked at him, and a proud expression crossed her 
face. “ I am not like other men, Joan. I must see for myself 
some proof of your penitence before I can say with any degree 
of truth that^ I forgive. I must learn to trust you. I must 
be sure, in my own mind, that I am not absolutely hateful to 
you as your husband before the same roof shelters us again. 
You think me hard, ungenerous, but I am doing this for your 
sake as well as my own.” 

“Where do you wish me to live?” she asked, coldly. 

“Not here ; you cannot remain here. You must own 1 am 
right in saying so,” and she bowed her head in grave acquies- 
cence. 

“You remember Mrs. Medhurst, Joan?” 


^^JOAN, COME BACK.^* 233 

“ An old lady with white curls, who came over to Button 
one day, and said she knew you as a boy 

‘‘Yes, she was my mother^s friend. She is old, — nearly 
seventy-five, — but still as fresh and active as possible, and she 
lives in a very pretty house in South Kensington. Do you 
think you would have any objection to stay with her for a 
time 

He spoke almost as though he were asking a favor, and 
Joanns answer was prompt. 

“ I think the question is, do you wish me to go there, Ivan?^ 

“ I do, but only for a time but she took no apparent notice 
of the latter part of the sentence, though he said it slowly and 
with meaning, and he might have added what was in his 
thoughts, “until I fetch you home, I do wish it.” 

“ Then of course I will go. I love Mrs. Chudleigh as though 
she were my mother, and I love Pauline, but you are right, I 
must not stay here. Am I to go as Mrs. Medhurst^s compan- 
ion ? Is that what you mean ?” 

“No! no!” he returned, impatiently, for, strange to say, 
her ready submission to his will almost angered him. It 
seemed to cut the ground from his feet, and made him feel 
that he was wanting in generosity. He was ashamed of his 
irritable nerves, but he could not keep his voice under control. 
“No, my wife has no need to earn her livelihood. I have 
more money than I know how to spend. I will fix your al- 
lowance, and if you exceed it, you can write to me for what 
you want. Mrs. Medhurst has invited you to stay with her as 
a friend. She is wise as well as kind, and will ask no questions 
that you will not care to answer. I shall be glad if you will 
make yourself pleasant to her.” 

“ Am I to go about alone ? You had better tell me all your 
wishes, Ivan.” Then he bit his lip angrily, for he knew that 
tone of old. 

“ Mrs. Medhurst is not your keeper ; she is only a kind old 
friend who has offered a temporary home to my wife, because 
she knows the circumstances, and thinks with me that it will 
be better for us to be apart for a time.” 

“ She is in your confidence ?” 

“ Yes, she is in my confidence : she will be in yours, too, if 
you care to make her a friend. She is a very comfortable sort 
of person. You will find yourself thoroughly at home, and 
you will go in and out just "as you choose.” 

“ I am a prisoner on parole, then. Ivan, I must say I 
wonder at your indiscretion. I thought our notions of honor 
differed,” but he was wise enough to pass over this taunt in 
silence. He guessed how her proud spirit was chafing under 
the yoke. 

“If you will not dislike it, Joan, I shall come and see you 
sometimes. I think it will be best, and — ” here he stopped, 
and then went on a little awkwardly — “and then, perhaps, 
there is some chance of our becoming better friends.” 

20 * 


234 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


I do not think so/’ was the provoking answer, for Joan 
felt she could not be good much longer : “ but all the same, you 
had better come and judge for yourself how I have been be- 
having.” 

“And you will write to me if you want anything, — not to 
Rachel.” Then she broke into an angry little laugh. 

“ I am glad there are to be limits to my obedience. Thank 
you for sparing me one humiliation ; at least, I can be grateful 
to you for that.” 

“I did not wish to speak on that subject/* he said, stiffly, 
“but perhaps I owe it to you to say something about my 
sister. I believe she has not behaved to you always with fair- 
ness. She was much too hard on a girl of your age. She de- 
manded impossibilities. I see now it was a mistake leaving 
the correspondence in her hands. It has widened the breach 
between us, it has led to all this terrible state of things.” 

“ Thank you for telling me this.” 

“ It is the truth, and I must speak it, but from this moment 
I shall never mention Rachel’s name in this way again. Now 
there is nothing more that I need say to you to-day. I will 
see Mrs. Chudleigh and arrange with her about your visit to 
Mrs. Medhurst. I wish it to be regarded as a visit.” 

“ It is not penal servitude, then? I was wondering if I had 
any chance of obtaining a ticket-of-leave.” Then he flung 
himself away from her, in a sort of impotent rage that she 
had still the power to vex him ; but the next moment Joan 
called him back. 

“ Ivan, I will be good. You shall see how hard I mean to 
try.” And then she said, a little plaintively, “Were you going 
away without saying good-by?” 

“What is the use of all that between us?” he said, harshly, 
but all the same he held out his hand. But Joan did not take 
it. 

“ You are right, Ivan. It is no use pretending to be friends, 
unless one really forgives. My sins are too black ; you cannot 
wipe them away yet. When you forgive me really you shall 
give me your hand, but I will now only say that I am sorry,” 
and then she passed by him, and there was no longer the 
gleam of her ruddy brown hair between him and the setting 
sun, and the musical, scornful voice had died into silence. 
“Joan, come back,” but there was no answer, — only the echo 
of his own voice seemed to mock him. “ Joan, come back ” 


JOAN LEAVES THE WITCHENS, 


28^1 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

JOAN LEAVES THE WITCHENS. 

“ Shall I for this indulge complaint, 

Turn traitor and cry shame on life? 

No ! be my prayer, however faint, 

Lord, help me to live out my strife. V 

Philip Stanhope Worslet, 

Before another half-hour had elapsed Mrs. Chudleighhad 
learned the result of the interview from Mr. Thorpe himself, 
and in spite of her disappointment and the strong disap- 
proval with which she listened to the proposed plan for Joan, 
she could not but own that he expressed himself with great 
moderation, and certainly bore himself with dignity under 
very trying circumstances. 

“ I am too great a stranger to have any right to obtrude my 
advice,^^ she said when he had finished, “ but you are my son^s 
friend, and Joan is very dear to us, and I cannot help saying 
that I wish you could have decided otherwise. 

“ You mean that Joan should come straight home to us ? If 
I listened to my own wishes, Mrs. Chudleigh, I should have 
taken her back at once. A man wants his wife, and I have 
been lonely long enough ; but my sober judgment tells me 
that it would be wiser to wait ; that there will be more hope 
of a permanent reconciliation if we are apart a little longer.^^ 

“ Of course Joan will do as you wish ?” 

“Yes, she was far more reasonable than I hoped to find her. 
She could not quite control her temper once or twice, but I 
could see how sore she felt. I am not without hope, now that 
she has owned her faults so frankly and then after a little 
more conversation he got up and went away. 

“ He is very masterful, Mrs. Chudleigh observed to her son 
afterwards. “I can quite understand now why Joan is so 
afraid of him. He knows how to keep a woman down, and 
to make her feel the force of his displeasure without saying an 
angry word ; he never forgets himself for a moment, and yet 
as he talked I felt I never liked him so well.^^ 

Joan tried to carry off her defeat with a high hand. 

“ It is just as I told you it would be,^^ she said, when Mrs. 
Chudleigh entered the school-room with a very grave face. 
“ Ivan is incorrigible. He has made up his mind that I am 
to be properly punished, and no sceptre of grace is to be ex- 
tended to me : he has already settled the term of my imprison- 
ment, and has provided me with a keeper.^' 

“ My dear, I hope you did not talk to your husband in this 
feckless fashion. 


236 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


I am afraid I did. I said some very provoking things, but 
he actually passed them by without a word. I was obliged 
to beg his pardon once, I forgot myself so, and then I re- 
membered my vow of obedience, and I told him he might say 
what he liked. 

“ He thought you were very reasonable. 

A faint blush rose to Joanns cheek. ‘‘ Did he say so? How 
strange it would be to hear Ivan praise me ! No, I will 
own that on the whole he has not treated me badly ; it is his 
nature to be severe ; he is a hard man, and soft speeches 
never came easily to him. He would have shaken hands 
with me, only I told him there was no use in pretending to 
be friends. 

“ He says Mrs. Medhurst is a very nice old lady, and that 
you will be sure to like her. I confess I was touched by his 
thoughtfulness for your comfort. We have arranged that you 
are to go to Kensington on Tuesday, and I am to drive with 
vou, and, unless you object, I am to go in and see Mrs. Med- 
nurst.^^ 

‘‘You must do as you like about that, but Ivan will not be 
satisfied unless you see me safe in charge of my keeper, and 
then she broke down and hid her face on her friend^s shoulder. 
“ Oh, I have been so happy here ; I do love this place, and now 
you are sending me away !” 

“ I do not see how you could stay with us, Joan ; my dear, 
think for a moment, would it be right 

“No — no, — of course I must go, it is only part of my pun- 
ishment, but, dear Mrs. Chudleigh, you will come and see me 
sometimes — ^you and Pauline 

“ Oh, yes, we will come ; but you will not be long there ; we 
shall see you soon in your husband^ s house, but Joan only 
shook her head dejectedly. 

“ There is no hope of that, and I do not know that I wish 
it. Ivan is coming to see me, but his visits will be terrible. 
Think of a wife and husband meeting under those circum- 
stances ; it makes me feel like some poor convict, only there 
will be no grating between us. But what on earth shall I say 
to him or he to me? I shall not have even a good-conduct 
badge to show him,’^ and then Mrs. Chudleigh smiled and 
gently reproved her. 

“It will all come right in time, Joan, if you will only be 
patient. Now, the girls will be back directly, and I must go 
down-stairs. Shall we see you in the drawing-room thia 
evening ?^^ but to this Joan returned a decided negative. 
She was too depressed and sick at heart to join the family 
group ; the strain of that interview was beginning to make 
itself felt, and she was only fit to be alone. 

She sat alone in the school-room all that evening, and her 
thoughts were very terrible to her ; neither Beatrix nor Pau- 
line came near her. At any other time Pauline would have 
sought her out at once, for they had always been inseparable, 


JOAN LEAVES THE WITCHENS. 287 

but as she sat there in numb wretchedness she told herself that 
this too was part of her punishment. 

She did not see Pauline until late the next day. She had 
always breakfasted with her pupils in the school-room, and it 
was not until luncheon that she saw the rest of the family, 
and she had made up her mind that she and Pauline would 
meet then ; but just as the little girls had put away their books 
and had run out in the garden, she heard a tap at the door, 
and Pauline entered. 

She came in hurriedly, and her manner was decidedly ner- 
srous ; still, she was going to kiss Joan as usual, only Joan 
drew back. 

“ Perhaps you had better not kiss me, Pauline she said, 
rather proudly. 

“Oh, of course if you do not wish it,” returned Pauline, 
awkwardly, and then she moved the papers on the table, and 
seemed at a loss what to say next. She did not like to en- 
counter Joanns eyes, they looked so sad and so reproachful. “ I 
promised mother that I would come and see you,” she went 
on, with a shade of temper in her voice, “ not that there is 
any use in doing so.” 

“ Of course I know how you must feel about it, Pauline ; 
you are so honest, so absolutely true yourself, that you cannot 
understand any want of straightforwardness in others. I 
knew we could never be friends again after this, that is why 
I told vou not to kiss me.” 

“ I think it is very hard upon me, Huldah,” and then Pau- 
line bit her lips and reddened, — “ I mean Mrs. Thorpe.” 

“ My name is Huldah,” returned Joan, coldly. “ My aunt 
always called me so : it was my husband and Rachel who 
preferred Joan. You can go on calling me Huldah if you 
like.” 

“ Thank you, I do prefer it,” and then she added, brusquely 
for Pauline was always brusque when she felt most strongly 
about things, “No, it is no use pretending ; we can never be 
friends in the same way ; I thought you were a girl like my- 
self, but all the time you were a married woman !” 

“ Of course it was very wrong.” 

“ Wrong ! I never heard of greater wrong-doing. Bee and 
I feel that poor Mr. Thorpe is greatly to be pitied. I am sorry 
if I seem unkind, Huldah, but I cannot say what I do not 
mean.” 

“ I think it is kind to speak to me at all.” 

“I could not help crying about it when mother told me, 
and yet I was angry too. I have only two friends in the 
world, — ^you and Charlotte,— and now t have been deceived 
in you, it does seem so cruel,” and Pauline^s eyes filled with 
tears. The whole thing was so foreign to her experience, she 
hardly knew how to deal with it. 

The sight of Pauline^s distress and perplexity was too 
much for Joanns soft heart, and the next moment she had 


238 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


caught the girl in her arms, and had kissed her half a dozen 
times. 

“ Don^t cry about me, Pauline darling, I am not worth it. 
You shall say what you like to me, and I shall only love you 
all the better. Do you think I shall ever forget all your good- 
ness to me ? I shall always be grateful, always, even though 
we are no longer friends. 

“ But, Huldah, it has made me so unhappy, and I shall miss 
you so.^^ 

“You will be better without me, darling ; you are too much 
disappointed in me to care for my companionship now ; it is 
only an angelic nature like your mother's that knows how to 
forgive perfectly. I shall not think you hard, Pauline ; in 
your heart you will be sorry for me. How can I expect you 
to feel otherwise when my own husband cannot forgive me ?" 
Then Pauline looked at her wistfully and did not answer, and 
just then the gong sounded for luncheon. 

Bee's marked coldness and scant civility did not trouble 
Joan as much as Pauline's petulant sorrow ; it was the girl's 
first disappointment, and she bore it with youthful impatience. 
“ Mother, why can't people be good?" she had said almost 
passionately the previous night. “ I think I must be wicked 
myself, for I cannot love people who disappoint me." And 
indeed for a time her love for Joan seemed to die a natural death. 

But affection is not so easily killed, and Pauline moped 
visibly over her broken friendship. Joan — or rather Huldah, 
as she always called her — had been such a bright, joyous com- 
panion, they had had so much in common, that PauUne found 
it hard to replace her. Even Charlotte's kindly common sense 
and Brenda's enthusiasm could not compensate for Joan's 
sweetness and lovable ways. After a time her girlish wrath 
began to evaporate and she became eager to make allowances 
for the culprit, and Mrs. Chudleigh, who was a peacemaker 
by nature, rejoiced at this softened mood. 

“Yes, I will go and see her, mother, but we can never be 
friends again." 

“ Perhaps not, my dear, but at least you can be kind to the 
poor girl. She is trying to retrieve the past, and it is not for 
us to put a stumbling-block in her way." And then Pauline 
went. 

Poor Joan, those last few days at the Witchens were very 
bitter to her ! Pauline's estrangement and Bee's hauteur did 
not add much to her comfort. Bernard was happily away 
with a reading-party, but Geoffrey's elaborate civility made 
her uncomfortable, it was such a contrast to his old familiarity. 
Even the little girls' round eyes, wide with childish curiosity, 
made her feel nervous and irritable ; indeed, she could hardly 
have lived through those days without some hysterical out- 
break, except for Mrs. Chudleigh's motherly kindness, and 
the grave watchfulness with which Launcelot interposed be- 
tween her and any threatened awkwardness. 


JOAN LEAVES THE WITCHENS. 


239 


“You must keep her with you as much as possible, Ma- 
della,*^ he had said to his step-mother. “You must not let 
her sit and brood alone. Pauline is unmanageable just now, 
and it is no use talking to Bee when she is in one of her little 
tempers. They will neither of them do anything to help 
her/^ 

And he treated the children's curiosity in the same wise 
wav. 

“No, she is not Miss Bossiter at all, but there were reasons 
why she did not wish to call herself Mrs. Thorpe. Her hus- 
band is very fond of her. Yes, she is unhappy ; she has 
known a great deal of trouble, poor thing, and you must be 
very kind to her. She is going on a visit to a nice old lady, a 
friend of her husband, and after that she will go home, and 
then perhaps you will see her.^^ And this prospect seemed to 
console the children, who were very sad at the idea of losing 
their bright young governess. When the last morning came 
Bee’s stiffness relaxed a little, and even Geoffrey’s frigid 
politeness thawed into something like genuine feeling as Joan 
wished him good-by. Perhaps he, too, felt there was some- 
thing pathetic in the girl’s pale face and dimmed gray 
eyes. 

“ Good-by. Keep up your courage ; it will all come right,” 
he said hurriedly, pressing her hand, for Geoffrey was a kind- 
hearted fellow in his way ; and then the children clung about 
her, and Bee and Pauline kissed her, both of them silently, 
only Pauline’s eyes were red. And then Launcelot drew her 
arm in his and put her in the carriage, where Mrs. Chudleigh 
had already seated herself. 

“Good-by, Mrs. Thorpe. God bless you,” he said. And 
Joan tried to speak in answer but failed. 

“ Oh, how good he is !” she said, bursting into tears as they 
drove away, leaving him standing there bareheaded. Good ?” 
Would she ever know his nobleness ? 

Alas ! Joan in her tardy repentance had yet to realize the 
bitter truth that it is as impossible to estimate the probable 
consequence of even one act of wrong-doing as it would be to 
measure the watery circles raised by one small pebble flung 
out of sin urchin’s hand ! It is a terrible thou^t how our 
sins and failures influence other lives, how even unborn gen- 
erations may rue the effect of our want of faithfulness. The 
worst part of Joan’s punishmer i lay in the knowledge that 
she had clouded the joyous existence of one of the happiest 
of God’s creatures, not dreaming, in her unavailing remorse, 
that the faggots she had kindled would only scorch the outer 
man, that by Divine help the real Launcelot would pass 
harmlessly through the purifying flame and rise to nobler 
purposes. 

But as Launcelot closed the heavy door behind him, ana 
shut himself in his solitary study, he told himself that the 
sunshine had left the house, and that henceforth he might 


240 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


write up “ Ichabod^* against his unlived life, for surely als 
glory had departed from him. 

Yes, as he sat there sad and lonely among his art treasures, 
trying to read but unable to fix his attention on the page, he 
was even now telling himself that his only chance of salva- 
tion, humanly speaking, was to work as though his life 
depended upon it, and to love his fellow-creatures better 
than himself. And as these salutary thoughts passed through 
his mind, he repeated to himself Charles Kingsley^s quaint 
lines, — lines that held a mine of wisdom in them : 

“ Do the work that’s nearest, 

Though it’s dull at whiles, 

Helping, when we meet them. 

Lame dogs over stiles ; 

See in every hedgerow 
Marks of angels’ feet. 

Epics in each pebble 
Underneath our feet.” 

Two hours later his step-mother found him in the same atti- 
tude ; but as she stood beside him, putting back the thick 
waves of hair with soft motherly touches, he looked up at her 
and smiled. 

“Well, Madella?'» 

“livery thing is as satisfactory as we could expect. Mrs. 
Medhurst received Joan most kindly, and tried to put her at 
her ease. 8he began talking at once about Mr. Thorpe in the 
most natural way. She calls him Ivan, so I suppose they are 
very old friends. * Ivan thought it would be better for you to 
have a front room, my dear, during your visit ; it is so much 
more cheerful.^ Little speeches like that every now and then. 
She seems a nice old lady, very lively and brisk for her age. 
And the house is so pretty. A most respectable woman, who 
has been Mrs. Medhurst^s factotum for the last twenty years, 
showed us all over it. Joan's room was charming, full of 
fiowers, which she said Ivan had ordered." 

“And you left her fairly comfortable?" 

“ Well, we must give her time to settle down. Of course she 
will feel strange at first," was the somewhat evasive answer. 
Not for worlds would Mrs. Chudleigh have told Launcelot of 
the heart-broken way in which Joan threw herself in her arms 
and wouldliardly let her go. “I have promised to drive over 
next week and take Pauiint with me, if she will consent to 
accompany me. There is the dressing-bell, Launce, and I must 
prepare for dinner. Pauline's friends, Charlotte Maxwell and 
her sister, are coming." But to this piece of information Launce- 
lot merely returned an indifferent shrug of the shoulder. What 
did it matter to him if the whole world were coming to dinner ? 

But even Launcelot in his solitary wretchedness, and Joan 
in her exile, would hardly have consented to change place® 
with Rachel Thorpe trying to break down the invisible bar- 
riei that seemed suddenly erected between her brother and 


JOAN LEAVES THE WITCHENS. 


241 


herself. A week had passed since that evening when Ivan 
had left her to go to the Witchens, and yet no word had passed 
his lips about Joan. Only when he came back he had shut 
himself into his study without coming in search of her, as 
usual, to retail his news and wish her good-night ; and though 
she had sat in the drawing-room restless and miserable until 
half the night was over, she had not ventured to go to him. 

But the next morning he had met her as usual, and, in spite 
of his careworn look, there had been no perceptible change in 
his manner towards ner. He had spoken of her work and his, 
and had asked her opinion on the investment of some spare 
capital. 

think railways will be the best and safest, though Stead- 
man wants me to join their company, but I said ‘No, thank 
you, the affair loo& shaky now.^ And I am not one for pro- 
longing life at all costs.^^ And she had agreed with him. 

And again that evening he had talked about investments, 
and when he withdrew to his study under the pretext of busi- 
ness she made no attempt to detain him; neither did she follow 
him, as she had so often done, just for the pleasure of sitting 
silently in his presence, content if he never spoke a word to 
her until midnight. What did he want with her now ? And 
KachePs face grew grim and gray as she sat alone trying to 
occupy herself. 

But on the night in which Joan took possession of her 
strange new room, and while she was looking with shy, wild 
eyes, like a captured bird^s, at the flowers that Ivan had sent 
there, and trying to gulp down the lump in her throat as she 
thought of her dear old room at the Witchens, Rachel was 
telling herself that she could bear it no longer, and when she 
saw her brother putting up his paper and preparing to leave 
the room as usual, the moment he had finished his dinner, 
she said rather sharply, — 

“You are surely not busy again to-night, Ivan. Your 
article was finished yesterday.’’ 

“Oh, it is not business connected with the ‘Imperial Re- 
view,’ ” he returned ; “there are other things,” and then he 
stopped as though he were embarrassed. 

“Why do you not tell me plainly that you have no longei 
any wish for my company ? that you would rather be alone ? 
Ivan, I cannot endure this state of things any longer ; if you 
are displeased with me, if I have disappointed you, why do 
you not tell me so plainly ?” 

“Because I did not wish to speak to you on the subje4?t. 
Surely I have a right to be silent if I choose.” 

“Not with me,” she returned, bitterly, “unless we have 
ceased to be friends and I am nothing to you. Even if I have 
made mistakes, if you think you have a right to be angry 
with me, you should tell me so, and give me an opportunity 
of clearing myself.” Then he closed the door and walked 
across to the hearth-rug, and as he stood there looking down 

L f 21 


242 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


upon her as she sat in her high-backed chair, his face looked 
dark and gloomy. 

“ Well, what is it you wish me to say he asked, harshly, 
and the tone of his voice was dreadful to her. 

“ Say the truth, — that you are angry with me for keeping 
my own counsel about Joan.^^ 

“ So I am, bitterly angry and disappointed, but there was 
no need to tell you so. I have no wish to quarrel with you, 
Rachel. Doubtless you had your reasons for what you did, 
or rather failed to do, but of course I must regard you as 
Joan’s enemy, and, as her husband, I am bound to protect 
her against you.” Then Rachel grew pale to her lips. 

Oh, Ivan, how can you be so cruel?” 

‘‘Nay, it is you who have been cruel, — cruel to that poor 
child who you knew was wandering in her wilfulness about 
the world, cruel to me, whom you also knew to be anxious and 
lonely. Why do you compel me to speak on this subject ? 
How am I ever to forget that I trusted my wife in your care, 
that I put the correspondence in your hands, and that for 
more than a year no word passed between you?” 

“ Ivan, it was a mistake, I own it frankly, but indeed it was 
for your sake I kept silence. I was terribly anxious about 
Joan, I would have given worlds for news of her, but I dared 
not add to your burthens, and I thought,” faltering in her 
speech under his cold, level glance, for she had risen too, and 
they were nearly of a height, “ I thought you would suffer less, 
that in time you might cease to miss her, if her name were 
not mentioned between us.” 

“Pshaw! how can a woman of your intelligence deal in 
such false sophistries? Do you not know a man’s nature 
better that that? ‘ Cease to miss her.’ Could you know Joan 
and think such a thing possible ? If I ever loved her, I love 
her ten times more in spite of her sins.” 

“ Ivan, is Joan coming back here?” 

“ Of course she is coming back when I think fit to fetch her, 
but she must earn my forgiveness first.” 

“ Then perhaps it will be best for me to leave you.” Rachel’s 
voice was very faint, so that he could hardly hear the word. 

“To leave me,— do you mean seek another home? No, 
Rachel. I am not quite so angry as that. I will never turn 
my sister from my doors, just when she is getting old too, 
neither will I give Joan that triumph. She shall come here 
and take her place as my wife, and the sole mistress of the 
house, and no one shall speak a word against her in my hear- 
ing when I have once brought myself to forgive her, but all 
the same she shall not drive my sister away.” 

“Thank you, Ivan,” and Rachel’s stern face twitched with 
emotion. “ I think it would break my heart to live under 
any roof but yours, but all the same you have but to speak 
the word, and I will go.” 

“ Then I will never speak it !” and he turned away as though 


JOAN LEAVES THE WITCHENS. 243 

he were not ready to meet her grateful glance, — but she laid 
her hand on his arm. 

“ Ivan, do not go yet. You will let me say how truly sorry 
I am for all this 

I think you ought to be sorry, Rachel. 

“I am !— I am vehemently. “I would give much to 
undo it now. You mean to forgive Joan— try to forgive me 
too.” 

“I have tried, but I feel as though I have lost all trust 
in human nature. Launcelot Chudleigh has been my only 
friend, and I think he is faithful.” 

“And I have failed you ! Ivan, I think you have punished 
me sufficiently now, that I should live to hear such words 
from your lips.” And now it was Rachel who turned away 
that he might not see the tears running down her face. 

“I am sorry if I have hurt you, Rachel, but if things are 
ever to come right between us I must speak the truth. In a 
little while, when Joan comes back to me, I shall feel less bit- 
terly about things ; until then you must not try to force my 
confidence. I mean to behave to you as well as I can. Will 
that content you ?” 

“ It must content me, I suppose ; but, Ivan, surely you will 
tell me where Joan is at present?” 

Then he answered her with obvious reluctance. 

“She is not at the Witchens. Mrs. Medhurst has kindly 
invited her to spend the autumn with her.” 

“ Do you wish me to go and see her ?” 

“ Certainly not. I shall go myself, and if Joan wants any- 
thing she will write to me.” 

“I think,” she returned, slowly, for all the jealous pain in 
her nature seemed to wake under his words, “ that you are 
keeping back part of the truth from me, — in your heart you 
have already forgiven Joan !” 

“You are mistaken,” was the somewhat dry answer, but a 
dusky flush rose to his brow. “We have both of us hard 
natures, Rachel, but I pray every night that I may be able to 
forgive her,” and then, as though he had said too much, he 
wished his sister good-night somewhat abruptly and left the 
room. 


244 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


CHAPTER XXX. 

LAUNCEIiOT FINDS FAULT WITH THE SALAD. 

“ In all my life I never heard that man give vent to a low or mean 
word, or evince a low or mean sentiment. . . . This secret was very sim- 
ple ii one could attain it ; but he attained it by not trying to attain it, 
for it was merely never thinking about himself. He was always think- 
ing how to please others in the most trivial matters.”— Charles 
Kingsley’s Eulogy on Charles Blackford Ma'^isfield, 

Troubles seldom come singly, and the Chudleigh family 
were to realize this homely truth, for it was just at this incon- 
venient time when the minds of his elders were otherwise en- 
grossed that Freckles chose to sicken with the measles ; and, 
as ill luck would have it, just as he was spending his holidays 
at a schoolfellow's house at Sutton. But then Freckles was 
always in some mischief, as Geoffrey remarked. 

When the latter readied them late one evening, about a 
week after Joan had left them, Freckles^s hostess had written 
off in no small perturbation of spirit ; she had not long been 
married, and was new to her duties as step-mother, and was 
somewhat bewildered by the boisterous spirits of three fine, 
healthy lads, who dubbed her Mammy on the spot, and ruled 
her most royally ever after with the full connivance and 
approbation of their father. 

Mrs. Chudleigh left the family group at once and carried 
off the letter to discuss it privately with her chief adviser, 
who heard her to the end very patiently. 

“I am afraid Mrs. Townsend is very much troubled, 
Launce ; she says Cecil has never had the measles, though 
she hopes Frank and Henry are safe. You see what she says 
about a spare room. I am quite sure she would be much 
relieved if I were to go, and, of course, I should like to nurse 
my own boy.’^ 

Oh, yes, it is very evident that she is afraid of the respon- 
sibility. Of course you must go, Madella mia, and, sorry as 
we shall be to lose you, it is plain that your place is with 
Freckles. What a pickle that boy is ! One never knows what 
he will do next.^^ 

** Mrs. Townsend says in her letter that she can make room 
for a maid. Don^t you think I might take Susan, Launce? 
She was so helpful last year when Sybil had the chicken-pox.^^ 
Certainly, take Susan by all means, and then there will te 
no fear of your knocking yourself up. Come, that is all set- 
tled. 

“No, not quite; you spoke of going away yourself next 
week 

“ Oh, there is no hurry about that,’^ he returned, with ready 


LAUNCELOT FINDS FAULT WITH THE SALAD, 245 


unselfishness, though it was quite true that he had planned a 
lengthy tour. “ I am my own master, and can regulate my 
movements. We cannot both leave home just now, as Geoflfrey 
is going to Scotland and the girls will be alone. 

“ Of course I could leave them happily in your charge, but 
I do not like to interfere with your plans, dear. Dr. Maxwell 
said last Saturday that you were looking thin and rather out 
of sorts, and most likely you need the change.” 

“Dr. Maxwell knows nothing about it,” returned Launce- 
lot, shortly ; and then, as though ashamed of his unusual 
irritation, he continued more quietly, “Don’t trouble about 
me, Madella, I am in first-rate condition. Just get that boy 
well, and take him to Eastbourne for a change, and I will 
stay and look after the girls, and Bernard when he comes 
back. I can go away later. Stedman has work for some 
months in Dresden ; it would not be a bad idea to join him 
about the end of September, and then go on to Berlin and 
Munich. It would be a change after Italy, and I want to see 
the art galleries.” 

“That is so like you, dear, to make the best instead of the 
worst of things. Well, I suppose I must accept the sacrifice. 
I could not go away and leave the girls happily. I am not 
quite comfortable about Bee ; she does not seem in her usual 
spirits.” 

“ I was thinking the same myself.” 

“ And yet how pretty she is ! No wonder she gets so much 
attention : one seldom sees a prettier girl anywhere. Launce, 
I don’t quite like talking of such things even to you, but do 
you think Mr. Hamblyji really admires her?” 

“ I am afraid he admires any pretty face. He is a terrible 
2irt. Even his sister owned that. I never did like the Ham- 
blyn connection, only my opinion is in the minority.” 

“But they are very well-bred young people, Launce, and 
Oscar Hamblyn is a most striking-looking man. I am sure in 
good looks he would match our Bee.” 

“ That is the way you women talk. What have looks to do 
with it, Madella? It seems to me there are other and far 
more important questions to be asked before we permit any 
man to pay his addresses to one of our girls. Do you think 
young Hamblyn is well principled ? I will undertake to say 
that he has a decided temper, his private means are small, and 
he is young in his profession. I should think it would be 
years before he could afford to keep a wife.” 

“Yes, but Bee is so young, there could be no harm in their 
waiting. And then she has a little money of her own,” urged 
Mrs. Chudleigh, who could not find it in her heart to be hard 
on so handsome a young man. Oscar Hamblyn’s dark olive 
complexion and melancholy eyes generally made an impres- 
sion on women, and it could not be denied that his manners 
were very distinguished, however exacting and irritable he 
might be in the family circle. 

21 * 


246 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


Lauacelot was tempted to retort rather impatiently, but he 
forbore, and answered mildly, “ Yes, no doubt they would have 
enough to provide bread and cheese, but Hamblyn is the sort 
of man who has been used to champagne and oysters, — you 
know what I mean. He would never settle down comfortably 
on small means. How do you know he is not in debt now ? 
Madella, I have often told you that you are not worldly-wise. 
Now, I intend to look after Bee pretty sharply. Hamblyn 
comes here far too often. He is hanging about most Saturdays, 
with or without his sister, and I notice he monopolizes Bee. 
Bee will have a piece of my mind if this goes on.^^ 

“ Oh, Launce, you will not be hard on the poor girl. Sup- 
posing” — and here she actually blushed as though she were a 
girl too — “ supposing she is beginning to care for him?” 

“ For heaven^s sake don't let us suppose anything so dis- 
tressing !” returned Launcelot, in such an alarmed voice that 
his step-mother smiled ; “ there is trouble enough without 
that.” And then he added hastily, “ You may trust me to 
look after my sisters. I shall be as lynx-eyed as any old 
woman. Miss Beatrix will have to mind her behavior. I 
shall be glad when these Saturdays are at an end. They bring 
a lot of idle young fellows about* the place. I wish Bee were 
more like Pauline. Paul will never give us any trouble.” 

No, indeed, she is a dear girl,” replied her mother, fondly 
who, indeed, could see no faults in her daughters. In her 
secret heart she thought Launce was rather hard on Bee. “ I 
am so glad you approve of her intimacy with the Maxwells. 
She goes two or three times a week to sit with that poor in- 
valid.” 

“Oh, she will get nothing but good there. I like every 
member of the family ;” and if Launcelot, in his enthusiasm 
for honest merit and sterling worth, was just a little short- 
sighted in this matter, even the wisest mortal is liable to 
error. 

Bee, in her wilfulness and girlish vanity, must be watched 
and guarded most sedulously, but it never entered into either 
Launcelot's or Mrs. Chudleigh's head that Pauline, in spite of 
her good sense and absence of coquetry, was a young, attractive 
girl, and that there might be possible risks in such frequent 
visits to a house where the master was unmarried and in the 
prime of his useful and energetic life. 

Granted that Dr. Maxwell was far too ousy a man to found 
idling about-his mother's drawing-room, and that a few 
minutes' conversation was all that ever passed between them 
at Bridge House, still there was danger of a more subtle kind 
to be apprehended when the son and brother was the hero 
and idol of a household of adoring women. Pauline might 
have wearied of dear Hedley's praises, of anecdotes of his 
wonderful boyhood from his mother and Aunt Myra, down 
to Brenda's and Charlotte's, and even Prissy's loudly-uttered 
encomiums on his professional cleverness, his wisdom in deal- 


LAUNCELOT FINDS FAULT WITH THE SALAD. 247 


Ing with his patients, his extraordinary fortitude and good 
temper. Perhaps it might have been well if Pauline had 
imitated Bee and laughed at the family egotism, instead of 
listening with increased interest and respect. Pauline grew 
to believe at last that the two best men in the world were 
Launcelot and Dr. Maxwell ; nay, she even secretly gave Dr. 
Maxwell the palm, as the more sorely tried hero of the two. 
Not that she hinted this even to her crony Charlotte, but her 
eyes brightened as the fond women talked. And when Dr. 
Maxwell interrupted them with one of his flying visits, the 
sight of the doctor^ s dark, irregular features and deep-set eyes 
would bring a pretty pink color to her fresh girlish cheek, as 
she sat demure and quiet by Brendans couch. 

Dr. Maxwell liked to see her there, though he treated her 
as his sisters’ friend, and made no attempt to linger in her 
pleasant company. Still his shake of the hand was always 
cordial, and his ‘‘How are you all at the Witchens, Miss 
Chudleigh?” was spoken with frank kindness. 

Often, as he sat alone writing, during his brief afternoon’s 
rest, he could hear the girls’ chatter and Pauline’s musical 
laugh. 

“ How happy they seem ! Poor Brenda has got a friend at 
last to suit her,” he would think, and his brotherly gratitude 
showed itself by increased courtesy and attention to Pauline 
when he paid one of his rare visits to the Witchens. 

“How good you are to Brenda !” he would say; “you arc 
putting fresh brightness into that poor girl’s life. You have 
no idea how she looks forward to your visits, it is such a relief 
to Charlotte. The other day, when I got home they were all 
singing your praises. I think Aunt Myra’s voice was the 
loudest” 

“ I don’t deserve any credit ; it is for my own pleasure that 
I go to Bridge House,” Pauline would reply, with sturdy 
honesty. Nevertheless she blushed a little. “ I am very fond 
of your sisters, and now Mrs. Thorpe has left us I feel rather 
lonely.” 

“ Oh, yes, you were great friends with her too.” 

“ Yes, Huldah was very nice, and of course I am fond of hei 
still, but we can never be quite the same friends now. I am 
afraid I am a little hard. Dr. Maxwell, but I am so sorry when 
people disappoint me, when they are not quite what I think 
them. Huldah disappointed me, and I don’t feel that I can 
be the same to her. Daunce and even mother think I am 
wrong, but one must act up to one’s nature.” 

“ I do not think you are wrong ; it is your youth that is in 
fault. When you are older you will learn to be more lenient 
to people’s mistakes,” and as Dr. Maxwell looked down at the 
girl’s bright, ingenuous face, he thought it would be a pity if 
the bitter experience of life were ever to induce her to lower 
her standard. He liked her unflinching honesty and love of 
truth, even her youthful intolerance and want of charity 


248 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


were venial sins in his eyes. She would never disappoint any 
one, he told himself. Happy the man who could win the 
love of that fresh young heart. And then he gave a quick, 
impatient sigh, and went off in search of Launcelot, while 
Pauline looked after him wistfully, and wished she were 
clever like Brenda or Charlotte, that she might keep him by 
her side. “He likes to talk to Liaunce best,” she thought re- 
gretfully, not dreaming in her modesty that Dr. Maxwell was 
beginning to find a dangerous magnetism in those brown eyes. 

Mrs. Chudleigh was quite satisfied to leave her girls under 
their brother's guardianship. She went away quite happily 
the next day, and was received rapturously by her young son. 

“ Now I shall have you all to myself, mother,” was Freckles’s 
greeting, as she bent over his pillow, “ and none of those other 
tellows, not even Launce, will get you. I didn’t want Susan. 
Susan is a duffer. I shall not take my medicine from any 
one but you. So look out, mother.” 

Freckles was Freckles, in spite of the measles. He was a 
very original patient, and kept his doctor in fits of laughing. 
The boy’s melancholy eyes and lackadaisical invalid airs and 
his droll speeches were too much for his professional gravity. 

“Are your other sons like this one, Mrs. Chudleigh?” he 
asked once. 

“ Yes, we are an awful lot,” replied Freckles, “ but we don’t 
take after mother. You should just see my eldest brother, sir, 
he is a terrible fellow for practical jokes, — all artists are. 
They say the smell of the paint and too much art gets into 
their brain. They are obliged to find a vent somehow.” 

“ Fred, my dear boy, how can you talk such nonsense about 
your brother, — Launce, too, who is like a father to you all ? 
What will Dr. Mallin think?” 

“That I must change this fellow’s medicine or he will get 
too much for us but Freckles only rolled his head on the 
pillow, and looked at the doctor reproachfully. 

“ I don’t suppose you believe in your drugs,” he said, with 
apparent simplicity, “ but it would not look professional not 
to order something. Of course, Susan can throw it away, so 
don’t mind sending it ; medicine, like affection, never is 
wasted. Shall I show you my parody on Longfellow’s lines, 
sir?” 

“ Confound you, sir, for a young jackanapes !” returned D'* 
Mallin, shaking his fist at this incorrigible patient, but he went 
off grinning. 

“Now we have got rid of him, mother, we will go on with 
Monte Christo,” observed Freckles, coolly ; “ and I won’t have 
a word skipped, mind. The more horrors the more I shall 
enjoy myself, and so will Susan,” with a wink at that respect- 
able young woman. Poor Susan reddened, but she dared not 
contradict her young tyrant. Monte Christo gave her bad 
dreams of a night ; she thrilled with horror as she listened to 
It. “I don’t think it is quite a nice book, Fred,” his mother 


LAUNCELOT FINDS FAULT WITH THE SALAD. 24$» 


would say ; “ I never did like French novels/^ but Freckles 
always overruled her scruples. 

“ It is a splendid book. Just you wait until Monte Christo 
pays them all out, that will curdle your blood for you, page 
^50,— you remember— I made you turn down the leaf. Now 
then, attention, Susan ; you can fire away, mother, and 
Freckles thumped his pillow with anticipatory enjoyment, 
and composed himself to listen. 

But in spite of Mrs. Chudleigh^s dislike to her son^s choice 
of literature, and a few minor drawbacks of this kind, her 
duties were far lighter and more enjoyable than Launcelot^s 
in his character as guardian to two pretty girls. 

On the whole, Mrs. Chudleigh enjoyed her present life. She 
was an excellent nurse, and never showed to better advantage 
than in a sick-room. Her rough schoolboy had never been 
dependent on her since his babyhood, and she was almost 
ready to endorse Freckles^s remark, “that if it were not for 
the horrid rash, and the doctor's stuff," here Freckles added 
an adjective more strong than graceful, he should think the 
measles were awfully jolly things. For Freckles in his way 
was having a good time of it. In his boyish heart he doted on 
his mother, though torture would not have induced him to 
confess as much, and to be the object of her sole care and pet- 
ting, to have his every wish gratified, and to lay his commands 
on her and Susan indiscriminately, was such a novel state of 
affairs and so pleasing to his boyish pride that Freckles would 
have extended his convalescence indefinitely, but for the de- 
lightful prospect of a fortnight at Eastbourne. Things were 
not progressing quite so favorably at the Witchens, although 
Launcelot, with an unselfishness that few men would have 
shown under the circumstances, had shunted off his weight 
of heavy sadness into the background and exerted himself to 
be agreeable to his sisters. 

But Bee showed herself decidedly ungrateful. She was 
clever enough to read between the lines ; she s^w she was un- 
der surveillance, and chose to resent it. She evon made objec- 
tions when Launcelot invited her to ride with him, although 
she knew he would get his way in the end. 

“You had better ask Pauline," she would say ; “ I am very 
busy this morning." 

“So is Pauline, extremely busy ; besides, she has to walk 
with the children." For Pauline, with ready helpfulness, 
had installed herself in Joan's place until another governess 
could be found, and was rather enjoying her new position. It 
gave her a sense of importance to say to Charlotte, “I am 
in sole charge of Sybil and Dossie, and they do all their les- 
sons with me. I am afraid I shall not be able to see Brenda 
quite so often until mother comes back." Charlotte would 
repeat her words probably in her brother's presence, and he 
would see that she was not quite useless. 

“ I don't think I feel inclined to ride," returned Bee, assum- 


2^50 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


ing a languid air, though her blooming complexion contra- 
dicted her words ; but Launcelot merely smiled at this lame 
excuse and ordered the horses, and Bee retired to put on her 
habit in rather a sulky frame of mind. 

Another time, when he rallied her gently on her want of 
spirits, to his great astonishment she turned the tables on 
him. 

don^t think that is quite fair, Launce,^^ she said, firing 
up at once. “You are as grave as a judge yourself, and yet 
you talk of my dulness. Norah was only saying the other day 
that she never saw any one so altered ; she was quite sure you 
were out of health, or had had something to worry you.’^ 

“ Miss Hamblyn does me too much honor by condescending 
to take notice of mylooks,^^ returned Launcelot, sarcastically; 
and then he walked off much displeased, leaving Bee mistress 
of the situation. This sort of speech hurt him cruelly ; no 
old Boman ever drew his toga more sternly over his death- 
wound than Launcelot tried to hide his inward pain. Suffer? 
of course he must suffer, but why should any prying human 
eye take note of the fact ? 

One morning he was riding in the empty Row with Bee ; 
they had just been enjoying a delicious canter, when Launce- 
lot proposed they should draw up under the trees for a few 
moments to rest Bee^s mare, as she looked a little hot. Bee 
was in a better temper this morning, and had been laughing 
and talking in her old way, but all at once she became very 
quiet, and Launcelot^s last remark remained unanswered, and 
on glancing round to know the cause he saw her, with 
heightened color and an uneasy expression on her face, look- 
ing after a tall gentleman who was walking down the path 
with a lady. 

“ That was Hamblyn, was it not, Bee?^^ 

“ Yes,^^ she returned, looking still more uneasy. “ I bowed 
to him, but he did not seem to recognize me. Did you see who 
was walking with him?^^ 

“A fair young lady, I think, but I hardly saw her face. I 
dare say he was not looking at us. Bee ; I often cut ladies of 
my acquaintance in that way,'^ and he changed the subject, 
for it was just possible that Oscar Hamblyn had recognized 
them, and that he was ashamed of his companion. “ I never 
had any opinion of him,^^ thought Launcelot, “ and I confess 
I do not like the look of this,^^ but on this point he wronged 
Oscar. 

Bee did not recover herself all day, and in the evening 
Launcelot questioned Pauline. 

Pauline answered rather reluctantly, — 

“ I think she is rather put out with Mr. Hamblyn. She is 
certain he saw her, for their eyes met, but he turned away 
and spoke to some lady who was walking with him. I do wisn 
she did not think so much about the Hamblyns, Launce.^^ 

“ So do I, with all my heart, but he said no more at that 


LAVNCELOT FINDS FAULT WITH THE SALAD, 251 


time. But when Saturday afternoon came, and brought Miss 
Hamblyn and her mother, he kept a close watch on Bee^s 
movements. And he very soon became aware of a by-play 
going on between her and Mr. Hamblyn. Bee was decidedly 
on her dignity, and kept him at a distance ; she would not 
understand his hints and implied apologies, she left him to 
himself and occupied herself with her other guests, looking 
very pale and pretty. It was plain, however, t^hat Oscar was 
not to be rebuffed ; he followed her boldly from place to place, 
watching his opportunity and in the end achieving his pur- 
pose. Poor little girl ! with all her wilfulness and dignified 
airs, she was no match for Oscar^s determination. 

Just as evening was drawing in and most of the people had 
gone, Lauucelot walked briskly down the path to the terrace, 
congratulating himself that this was the last of Bee^s Satur- 
days, when he was suddenly pulled up by hearing Oscar 
Hamblyn^s voice close to him, and a moment afterwards 
Bee^s answering him. 

The speakers were evidently on one of the shrubbery seats, 
and another few steps would bring him face to face with them 
as he paused uncertain whether to disturb the ; a 

few words reached his ears, and he hastily beat a retreat. 
Lauucelot was looking very fierce and angry by the time he 
reached the house. Pauline and Miss Hamblyn and Bernard 
were standing at the drawing-room window. Launcelot 
called out to his brother, — 

‘‘ Bear, I wish you would look for Bee ; I fancy she and Mr. 
Hamblyn are near the terrace. It is quite time for her to 
come in,^^ and Bernard went off whistling. 

“How dare that fellow make love to my sister in this clan- 
destine fashion said Launcelot to himself ; “ does he think 
this will prepossess him in our favor ? I will stand no more 
nonsense. I will talk to Bee to-night. What a blessing 
Madella is away ! she would spoil everything. She never 
will believe Bee can be in the wrong. 

Launcelot^s manner was decidedly stiff when he said good- 
by to the Hamblyns. Bee looked at him wistfully in the hope 
that he would invite them to stay. “ It is our last Saturday 
she said, regretfully. 

“Of course it is the last; what is the use of keeping them 
on when every one is away? You have had one too many 
now,^^ observed her brother, coolly. “Bear, will you see if 
the brgugham is there?” and Bear, who had a grudge against 
Miss Hamblyn on his own account, discharged his errand 
with promptitude. 

“ You will come and see us, dear, will you not?” observed 
Norah affectionately to her friend. “ Come on Wednesday ; 
mamma and I will be quite alone.” 

“ Oh, not Wednesday ! I have an engagement for that 
afternoon,” returned Oscar, in a low voice, and Bee fiashed a 
look at him and then blushed very prettily. 


252 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


‘‘Very well, if you are good then,^^ in answer to another 
whisper, and then followed a prolonged shake of the hand. 

Launcelot was a little short with his sisters that evening ; 
he scolded Bee for being late for dinner, but she answered him 
amiably. Pauline and Bear exchanged glances of consterna- 
tion when Launcelot found fault with the salad. “ I shall be 
glad when your mother comes back,” he said reproachfully to 
Bee; “ she always looks after this sort of thing, but nothing 
is comfortable in her absence.” 

“ I tell you what, Mrs. Fenwick, there is a screw loose some- 
where, or master would not be so uncommon cross. I never 
heard him find fault with anything on the table before. Why, 
the salad never was better.” 

“ Cross !” returned his wdfe, raising her eyebrows, “ why, 
Fenwick, you might as well tell me that that blessed baby” — 
pointing to a plump infant in pink bows belonging to the gar- 
dener^s cottage, who was trying to swallow his dimpled fist — 
“was cross. Who has a right to find fault with the salad, or 
anything else, if it is not our young master, bless him?” and 
Mrs. Fenwick, who was a devout believer in Launcelot^s vir- 
tues, bustled about in irate fashion after her husband^s injudi- 
cious speech. “ Cross, indeed ! who ever heard the like ?” she 
muttered as she took the baby out of the cot and carried him 
home to his mother. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

“then you ABE ENGAGED TO HIM?” 

“ A woman does not like a man less for having many favorites, if he 
deserts them all for her : she fancies that she herself has the power of 
fixing the wanderer ; that other women conquer like the Parthians, but 
that she herself, like the Romans, can not only make conquests, but re- 
tain them.”— CoiiTON. 

“ Come on the terrace, Paul, while I smoke a cigarette,” 
v)bserved Bear, affably, and the two marched off arm in arm. 
Bee, who was turning over her music on the grand piano- 
forte, looked after them wistfully, as though she were inclined 
to follow them. Perhaps Launcelot would not care for music 
this evening, he looked decidedly glum ; anyhow, she did not 
want to remain in his society. He had been very stiff and 
disagreeable with her friends, and had found fault with her 
for nothing at all. She wished her mother would come back 
if things were to be like this ; and Bee tossed her pretty head, 
unseen as she thought, and walked with the air of a princess 
to the window. 

“Beatrix, I want to speak to you.” Bee started. Launce 
never callea her Beatrix unless he was going to reprimand her 
about something. 


^^THEN YOU ARE ENGAGED TO HIMV^ 


253 


** Well,” she said, pettishly, “ what is it now ? I hope you 
are not going to talk about the salad again ?” 

*‘No,” he returned, quietly, ‘‘I have something far more 
important to say. Please come away from the window, unless 
vou want Fenwick and Orson to hear us.” Then she camr^ 
back into the room with rather a disconcerted air. 

You seem cross about something, Launce.” 

“No, not cross, only seriously disturbed. Bee, my dear, I 
want you to be perfectly frank with me. It will be the only 
course for you. As your elder brother standing to you in the 
position of a guardian I surely have a right to know the exact 
state of things between you and Mr. Hamblyn.” 

“What do you mean?” she asked, in rather a frightened 
voice. Then she plucked up a little spirit, and held her head 
very high. “ I donT think you have the right to put such a 

i uestion to me. You are very unkind about the Hamblyns, 
«aunce. You are always finding fault with my friends, and 
Norah is my intimate friend.” 

“ Is her brother your intimate friend too ?” Then Bee looked 
confused. “He is either your intimate friend or your lover. 
Tell me the truth, have you engaged yourself to him?” Then 
the girl became very pale. 

“No, Launce.” Then very indignantly, “ I think your ques- 
tions are insulting ; you have no right to speak to me like this. 
I would only allow my mother to say sucli things to me.” 

“ Your mother is not here, but if she were, what would she 
have said to that conversation of yours with Oscar Hamblyn 
in the shrubberies ?” 

“What do you mean?” she gasped, but her eyes dropped 
before his. “ Oh, Launcelot, surely you were not so dishonor- 
able as to listen ?” 

He let that affront pass quietly, for he saw she was really 
frightened now, and he wished not to estrange her, but to 
win her confidence. 

“I don^t think ‘dishonor^ and I have ever shaken hands, 
Bee. Still, as you appear to doubt me, let me tell you what 
I really heard — ” 

“ Oh, no ! no !”— trying to stop him, but Launcelot quietly 
continued his speech. 

“ On my way to the terrace, I thought I heard voices in the 
shrubbery. They were yours and Mr. Hamblyn^s ; and as I 
hesitated for a moment, not knowing whether to go on and 
disturb an interesting UterdMtt or to turn back, I heard 
Mr. Hamblyn say, — excuse me. Be?, but I intend to repeat 
the words, — ‘ You are so jealous, my darling ! You will never 
allow a poor fellow to amuse himself in your absence. Now, 
what harm could there be in my taking a walk with my 
oousin?^ ‘Was she really your cousin, Oscar ?^ ‘Of course 
she was, my pet T— and here I turned on my heel and marched 
off in disgust. Now, Beatrix, answer me fairly ; do you not 
think, as your guardian, I have a right to question the wis- 


254 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


dom of your conduct when you allow that fellow to call you 
* darling^ and I know not what besides?” But Bee, who had 
changed from white to red during her brother’s speech, in- 
terrupted him with an attempt at dignity. 

Don’t go on, Launce ; there was nothing wrong in Oscar’s 
speaking to me like that, — he — we — love each other.” 

‘‘Has he told you so?” 

“Yes,” hanging her head, but looking so sweet and pretty 
in her maidenly confusion that Launcelot, who had worked 
himself into a white heat, fairly groaned with impotent rage 
at “ the impertinent scoundrel,” as he called him. 

“May I ask when he informed you of this interesting 
fact?” 

“ Oh, Launcelot !” And now her eyes were full of tears. 

“ I see you consider me brutal, and I own I never felt so 
savage in my life. I think it will be best to answer me quite 
frankly : when did Mr. Hamblyn speak to you first?” 

“Do you mean when did he tell me he was fond of me? 
That evening we went to the Albert Hall.” 

“Then you are engaged to him?” 

“No ; oh, no !” 

“Indeed! I don’t understand. I should have thought, 
judging from those terms of endearment, that you were his 
j^anc^e.” 

“ No,” — rather sorrowfully, “ Oscar is very unhappy because 
he sees no prospect of our engagement for a long time. That 
is why he has not spoken to you ; he says he has nothing to 
offer. But I tell him I shall not mind waiting as long as I 
know he is fond of me, and that we understand each other.” 

“ It did not much look like understanding each other in the 
park the other morning.” Then Bee looked rather foolish. 

“ Of course I was silly about that. I ought not to have sus- 
pected him.” 

“Well, there are cousins and cousins. Did he tell you the 
young lady’s name?” 

“Yes, it was his cousin Erica — Erica Stewart. Such a plain 
little thing, and two or three years older than Oscar.” 

“Certainly you might have given him the benefit of the 
doubt, but now I want you to tell me exactly what passed 
between you both. You were his mother’s guest, remember, 
and of all places he had no right to speak to you under her 
roof.” 

“He never meant to speak,” she returned, eagerly, and it 
struck Launcelot that it was rather a relief to her that the 
truth should be known. “ Poor little girl, she is really open 
by nature,” he thought, “ but he has persuaded her to hold 
her tongue for his own purposes,” and his manner softened 
imperceptibly, for he could not long remain stern in the face 
of her distress. “He never meant to betray his feelings” 
continued Bee ; “ but we were akine, and then he spoke. He 
said he knew he was wrong, but he cared so much for me that 


“ THEN YOU ARE ENGAGED TO HIMV* 


25o 


he could not be happy until he knew whether his affections 
were returned. 

“I suppose you contented him on that point 

“Oh, yes. I have never seen any one to compare with 
Oscar, and it made me quite happy to know he cared for me ; 
and then he looked sad, because he said that there could be 
no engagement between us at present ; that he could not 
speak to you, because he had nothing to offer ; that he was in 
debt, though not very deeply; and that it could only be a 
mutual understanding between us.^^ 

“ But, Bee, is it possible that you could consent to such an 
arrangement without consulting us ? What will your mother 
say when she knows that you have acted in this clandestine 
manner 

“ I wanted to tell mother dreadfully, but Oscar said that it 
would place him in such an awkward position. He did seem 
so troubled, poor fellow, and so afraid that you might inter- 
fere, and prevent us seeing each other, and he said that would 
make him so miserable. 

“Of course he was thinking of himself, not you. That 
proves his selfishness. Now, Bee, you need not fire up. You 
must bear to hear the truth. An honorable man, even if he 
had been carried away by his feelings, and had betrayed him- 
self, would at least have atoned for his fault by an honest 
declaration of his affection to either your mother or me, and 
then would have abided by our decision. And I must say I 
think it a mean and ungentlemanly action to take advantage 
of our hospitality to entangle the affections of an inexperi- 
enced girl, and to draw her into this clandestine connection. 
I do not think it promises well for your future happiness, 
Bee.^^ 

“You speak as though I were a raw school-girl,” returned 
Bee, angrily. “You forget that I have been out two seasons, 
that I could have married before if I liked.” 

“ Indeed, I do not forget, my dear, that you rejected an 
honest, brave young fellow, a gentleman every inch of him, 
who would have made his wife a happy woman ; but I beg 
your pardon, he had red hair.” 

“ Nonsense, Launce, as though that made me refuse him ! 
but how can you mention Sydney Ulverton and Oscar in one 
breath ?” 

“Why, indeed, it is like weighing solid gold and tinsel to- 
gether. Oh, Bee, my child, how can women be so blind and 
foolish ! You have endowed Mr. Hamblyn with virtues he 
will never possess, because he has a handsome face and good 
manners and knows how to flatter a pretty girl. I do not say 
that even Oscar Hamblyn has not got his good points, heaven 
forbid ! but this I do say, that your lover is a very weak, im- 

E erfect mortal ; that he is both conceited and selfish ; that he 
as extravagant tastes and no means to gratify them ; that 
his sense of honor is none of the finest, and that if you ever 


256 ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 

marry him, it will be with a heavy heart that I shall give you 
away.^^ 

This speech, uttered with much gravity, effectually sobered 
poor Bee. It was dreadful to think that these were really 
Launcelot^s sentiments, but, of course, he was prejudiced. 
Oscar had once told her that her brother was a man of strong 
prejudices, and she was inclined to believe him. He must be 
wrong about her poor Oscar. No doubt he had his faults like 
other young men, but he was so fond of her that she would 
be able to guide him. Bee was not quite sure in her own mind 
that she liked young men to be goody-goody. A little spice 
of independence and pride — Bee would not add devilry — 
seemed natural to them ; and then what a lover he was I 
How could any girl resist such a Prince Charming? 

Bee looked up very piteously at her brother with her pretty 
eyes full of tears. You will not separate us, Launce?^^ she 
said, timidly. “It is too late to undo things now, and it 
would break my heart to part from Oscar. 

“I shall certainly not permit an engagement until Mr. 
Hamblyn has paid off his debts, and has some chance of 
making an income, neither will your mother or I countenance 
a secret understanding. I must talk to Madella and learn her 
wishes, and then I will speak to Mr. Hamblyn. I do not say 
that we shall forbid him the house. I have no wish to act the 
tvrant. Bee, but you will both have to give me your word that 
tnere shall be no private communications or letters — to speak 
plainly, no love-making — ^until he can come forward openly 
to claim you.^^ 

“ I am sure Oscar will never consent to these terms, she 
said, looking very miserable. 

“ Then I am afraid the Witchens will be closed to him ; but 
I believe you are wrong. If he is really in love with you, and 
desires to make you his wife, a little work and waiting will not 
deter him. Now, don^t look so broken-hearted over it. You 
can surely be satisfied with seeing him from time to time, 
though I may as well tell you that we shall not trust you to 
Lady Hamblyn again. Still, you can see your friend Miss 
Nora here occasionally.^^ 

“ And you will tell mother all about it?^^ 

“ Yes, when I go down to Eastbourne to settle them in their 
lodginga^ and then I shall write to Mr. Hamblyn, and make 
an ^pointment for an interview. 

“He is going down to Lewes on Friday.’^ 

“Very well, I can see him there; but. Bee, remember, no 
corresponden ce. ^ ' 

“ He has promised to write to me,^^ she whispered. 

“ Then you must answer his first letter, and tell him there 
must be no more. Let him know that I have found out 
things, and that I have forbidden you to receive his letters. 
He will be on his guard then, and will be prepared for my 
visit” 


« THEN YOU ARE ENGAGED TO HIMV' 


257 


“ Oh, Launce, I do think you are so hard ; and now you 
will talk mother over, and make her agree with you. You 
were not nearly so severe with Mrs Thorpe, though I am sure 
she acted in the most deceitful way.^^ 

“We will keep Mrs. Thorpe^s name out of the conversa- 
tion,^^ ha returned, quietly, though a wave of pain passed 
over him at the mere mention of her name. “ I only wish I 
could tell your mother that her daughter was half as penitent 
as that poor girl was,^^ and this reproach went home. 

“Oh, I am sorry, Launce. I have been more miserable 
than you know. I have always told mother and Pauline 
everything, and it troubled me so to have a secret. I know 
you don^t think as well of me as you do of Pauline. You 
nave never been angry with her ; but I did not try to make 
Oscar in love with me, and I do call it so hard to be so scolded, 
because I cannot help returning his affection. 

“Poor little thing, I suppose I must forgive you,^^ returned 
Launcelot, relenting at her tears. “ Don^t fret any more, but 
Kiss me, like a good girl.” Then Bee nestled up to him and 
hid her face on his shoulder. “I really am sorry, Launce,” 
she whispered; “please forgive me,” and so peace was re- 
stored. Bee went to bed happily that night, and poured out 
all her sorrows to Pauline, who was dreadfully shocked and 
unusually sympathetic. 

“ I don^t wonder Launcelot was angry. Bee. It was very 
wrong of you both, and I must say I wonder at you. How 
could you keep anything from mother ? Oh ! she will be so 
nurt:” but somehow Bee did not mind Pauline^s blunt 
speeches. She was really a good girl, and the concealment 
had been odious to her, but her lover had so blinded her eyes 
by his plausible arguments, that even now Pauline could not 
bring her to own the heinousness of her fault. 

“ I told Launce I was sorry,” she said, quite happily, “ and 
he was such a dear, but at first he quite frightened me.” 

Bee had shifted ofl* her burthens in a light-hearted fashion. 
What did waiting for a year or two signify, if Oscar were fond 
of her? And she fell asleep and dreamed happily of her 
lover^s dark eyes. 

Launcelot was far more anxious. He could not in his secret 
heart believe that Oscar Hamblyn would stand the test of 
separation and prove himself a constant lover. Bee trusted 
him with a girPs simple faith, and never questioned his 
fidelity, but Launcelot held a diflerent opinion, and he feared 
for his young sister^s happiness. 

“I dare say he is in love with her after a fashion,” he 
thought. “ A pretty little creature like Bee could well win a 
man^s heart ; but his nature is naturally cold and cautious, 
and there is one person he cares for more than Bee, and 
that is himself. Fancy a selfish fellow like Oscar Hamblyn 
infiuencing the happiness of our Bee ! I think Madella 
would break her heart if anything went wrong with one 

r 22* 


258 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


of the girls. Oh, life’s an awful muddle, as that poor fellow 
said.” 

Bee was on her best behavior for the next few days, and 
tried to make amends for her little tempers by all sorts of 
pretty attentions to Launcelot. 

‘‘Bee is as sweet as barley-sugar,” Bear said one; day. “I 
think she wants to get something out of Launce ;” at which 
speech they both changed countenance. 

Bee did not offer her first love-letter for Launcelot’s perusal, 
— it was far too precious to be seen by any eyes but hers, — but 
she wrote back that they had been overheard the other day. 
Launcelot had discovered everything, and was annoyed at the 
secrecy ; he was very kind to her, but he had fully made up 
his mind to speak to Oscar. “ I am afraid his conditions will 
not please you,” she went on. “ You were right in thinking 
that an engagement would not be allowed at present. Still, 
you will be content to see me sometimes, will you not, dearest V 
and you know that I would wait any number of years for you, 
my own Oscar” — and so on. 

“ Confound it all, it is just like my luck !” growled Oscar, 
as he read that letter in his hotel bedroom. “ Now we shall 
have the brother, en grand seigneur I suppose, demanding 
my intentions. Well, they are distinctly matrimonial ; I do 
not intend to give up my little Beatrix. Erica may tear her 
hair if she likes. The Missis must give me a helping hand ; 
she and Nora can pinch a little. Nora ought to be settled by 
this time ; she is rather a dead weight. Beatrix will have 
five thousand pounds, and most likely her brother will do 
something handsome, so I may as well be civil to him, though 
as for conditions, — well, we shall see about that ;” and Oscar 
looked rather wicked as he whistled melodiously a few bars 
of “ My love she’s but a lassie yet.” 

Launcelot was counting the days until Freckles’s interest- 
ing convalescence should have progressed far enough to permit 
his removal to Eastbourne. He was longing for motherly 
help and sympathy. “ I am afraid Madella will take their 
part,” he thought, “unless Hamblyn’s underhand ways pre- 
judice her against him ; but, all the same, I must not act on 
my own undivided responsibility. What a blessing that fel- 
low is at Lewes ! There is no fear of his turning up when 
one is off One’s guard.” 

Launcelot was making his toilet while these thoughts 
passed through his mind, and fastening his diamond studs 
rather absently. Bee and he were to dine at the Roskills’ 
that evening, a family living in a large house across the 
common ; but at the last moment Bee turned captious. 

“ She hated dinner-parties. The idea of a dinner-party in 
August just because an old uncle had arrived from India ! 
And the Roskills’ dinners were always such stupid affairs ; 
she was sure to have a headache if she went, so Pauline might 
as weU take her place.” 


^^THEN YOU ARE ENGAGED TO HIMT^ 


259 


Pauline made no demur. In her heart she disliked dinner- 
parties quite as much as Bee, but she was very good-natured, 
and seldom refused to comply with Bee^s caprices. ‘‘Very 
well, I will go,^^ she returned, with cheerful acquiescence. 

“ Paul, you are a rattling good fellow ; you are worth half a 
dozen Bees,'^ observed Bear, admiringly. 

“ Pauline is always ready to do a kindness for every one,^^ re- 
turned Launcelot, approvingly. “ I wish Bee were not quite 
so exigeante, for I know you do not want to go.^^ 

“Oh, I don’t mind with you, Launce ; and we will walk 
home across the common, it will be a lovely night and Pau- 
line tripped away to put on her freshest and prettiest gown. 

Pauline had no idea that her unselfishness would be amply 
rewarded, — that the first person who would meet her eyes in 
the Roskills’ dining-room would be Dr. Maxwell. He came 
up and greeted her with marked pleasure. 

“They told me I was to take in Miss Chudleigh to dinner, 
but I had no idea it was you they meant;” and a certain intona- 
tion in his voice made Pauline’s heart beat a little faster. How 
well Dr. Maxwell was looking! she thought. Dark men always 
looked their best in evening dress. It was all very well for Bee 
to call him plain, because her mind was full of a certain dark- 
eyed Adonis. But certainly Dr. Maxwell was the most gentle- 
manly-looking man in the room, — and then what a clever face 
he had ! 

Pauline certainly enjoyed that dinner-party ; she hardly 
complained of its tedious length when Dr. Maxwell lavished 
his whole attention on her, and seemed even to forget his 
dinner in his animated talk. 

Launcelot grew a little envious as he watched them ; his 
companion was hardly to his taste. His hostess had intro- 
duced him to a lady whose name he had not caught, but he 
guessed she was unmarried. 

She was rather a plain little person, exceedingly well dressed, 
and wearing a diamond star in her flaxen hair. She was pale 
and insignificant-looking, with light eyelashes and babyish 
blue eyes, and might be any age from sixteen to six-and-thirty, 
and her conversation was hardly up to the level of mediocrity : 
in a word, she was decidedly uninteresting. She volunteered 
an observation with some animation as they placed themselves 
at the table and Launcelot inspected his menu-carte. 

“ I am told that Miss Chudleigh is here,” she said. “ Can 
you point her out to me?” 

“My sister Pauline,” he returned, in some surprise. “ Oh, 
yes, she is sitting nearly opposite to us ; the gentleman beside 
her is Dr. Maxwell.” 

“ Pauline, did you say ?” dropping her pince-nez with rather 
a disappointed air. “Oh, that is not the same. I thought it 
was your sister Beatrix.” 

“ What, have you heard of them before?” he asked, in some 
astonishment. 


200 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


‘‘Yes, from my cousins, she replied, quietly. “I know 
your sister is very pretty, Mr. Chudleigh. This one is nice- 
looking, but not what I expected. I am told your sister Bea- 
trix is quite a beauty. 

“ Some people say so,^^ he returned, carelessly ; “ she is much 
admired, but I prefer Pauline^s face myself and Pauline, 
hearing her name, looked across the table with a bright smile. 

It was Launcelot who was inclined to stigmatize dinner- 
parties that day. It was quite a relief when the long evening 
was over and he stood at the door looking out on the moon- 
light and waiting for Pauline to join him. 

She came out presently with a lace scarf thrown over hei 
hair, and in her pretty cloak trimmed with swansdown, and 
took his arm. Dr. Maxwell, who was following her, bade 
them good-by at the gate. 

“ There, that^s over,” observed Launcelot, in a tone of relief. 
“ I hope you enjoyed yourself more than I did, Paul.” 

“ Oh, yes, very much, thank you,” returned Pauline, rather 
incoherently. “ Please walk slower, Launce : it is such a de- 
licious night, and there is no fear of catching cold ; besides, I 
am wrapped up. I did enjoy the first part of the evening 
until we went into the drawing-room, and then, oh, Launce, 
she came and talked to me and spoiled everything.” 

“ Whom on earth do you mean by ‘ she’ ?” 

“ Miss Stewart,— the girl who sat by you at dinner.” 

“Oh, was that her name? I could not hear what Mrs. 
Eoskill called her, but she was a dreadfully uninteresting 
little person.” 

“ But, Launcelot, I don’t think you take it in, — she is Erica 
Stewart — the Hamblyns’ cousin. She came up and introduced 
herself to me, and began talking about them in the oddest 
way, — and — oh, dear! what shall we do with Bee? it has 
made me quite miserable — Miss Stewart declares she is en- 
gaged to her cousin Oscar, that he proposed to her years ago.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

^ “OSCAR IS A SAD BOY.” 

** Has Pat« overwhelmed thee with some sudden blow ? 

Let thy tears flow ; 

But now when storms are past the heavens appear 
More pure and clear; 

And hope when farthest from their shining rays 
For brighter days.” 

Adblaidk Anne Procter. 

As Pauline uttered the last words with a little gasp of ex- 
citement, Launcelot put his hand on her arm. 

“There is no hurry, and you are wrapped up,” he said, 


^^OSCAR IS A SAD BOF,^^ 


261 


quietly, “and the night is quite warm ; let us sit down for a 
few minutes, and then you can tell me all that passed between 
you and Miss Stewart/^ 

“ But, Launce, you do not even seem surprised, and it is all 
so dreadful. Poor dear Bee, and she is so fond of him !” 

“ I cannot say that I am su^rised. I always expected some 
such denouement as this. Hamblyn has not got the right 
straightforward look about him. Engaged to his cousin ? It 
is probably the truth. I should say he is the sort of fellow to 
be engaged half a dozen times !” 

“Well, not exactly engaged, but I had better tell you what 
she said, though it was odd giving me her confidence when we 
were perfect strangers to each other, — but then she had her 
reason s.^^ 

“ I am quite sure of that.^^ 

“ I could not help noticing her when we were at dinner. I 
think her diamonds attracted me first, it seemed so strange to 
see them on a mere girl. But she is not so young as she looks ; 
she must be thirty, only she is such a pale, washed-out little 
thing. How can a man like Mr. Hamblyn make love to such 
an insignificant person 

“ My dear Paul, if you do not keep to the point we shall have 
to sit here until morning. I don^t think we were either of us 
much interested in Miss Stewart. 

“No, indeed, I could see how bored you felt, — not that any 
one else would have noticed it, but I knew what your expres- 
sion meant. Well, all dinner-time I could see she was watch- 
ing me, at least I never looked up without encountering her 
eyes, and I began to wonder at last who she could be. But as 
soon as we were in the drawing-room she came up and intro- 
duced herself to me and asked me to go with her into the con- 
servatory to look at some orchids, but instead of looking at 
them she began talking about Beatrix. 

“Oh, I recollect she mentioned Bee, but I gave her no en- 
couragement to go on.^' 

“Yes, she said how much she had heard of us both from 
her cousin Nora ; that Nora quite raved about Bee^s beauty, 
and that she knew how often she and Oscar were at the 
Witchens; and then her manner changed, and she said, in 
rather a constrained voice, that she supposed we knew that 
she and Oscar meant to make a match of it some day, — that 
they had been as good as engaged ever since they had grown 
up, and that but for her poor uncle Charleses long illness they 
would have been married by now. All this said quite bluntly 
and in the most matter-of-fact manner, and without a blush. 

“Awkward for you, Paul.^^ 

“ Awkward ! I turned as red as a turkey-cock in a moment, 
and hardly knew if I was in my proper senses. You know I 
never could hide my feelings, so I suppose my face betrayed 
my thoughts, for I only uttered a stupid ‘Indeed,^ for she 
looked at me and said rather sharply, ‘ I suppose Oscar never 


262 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


gave you the impression of being an engaged man V and my 
indignant ‘ No, indeed must have spoken volumes, for she 
reddened a little and bit her lip, though she answered in the 
same composed manner, ‘Oh, Oscar is a sad boy, but he is 
only like other young men. Few can resist a flirtation with 
a pretty girl ; they do it just for the fun of the thing, and be- 
cause it gives them a little importance in their own eyes. 
They pride themselves on their conquests very much as an 
Indian warrior prides himself on the number of his scalps,^ 
and here her laugh was not quite pleasant. ‘I only hope 
Oscar did not make himself too agreeable to your pretty 
sister.^ 

“This was too much. Was it not impertinent of her? I 
drew myself up in a most dignifled manner, and said in the 
most chilling voice I could assume, ‘ Excuse me, Miss Stewart, 
but my sister is a perfect stranger to you, and you can have 
no right to bring in her name. I believe we were speaking 
of your cousin, Mr. Hamblyn,^ but she was not to be repressed. 
‘ I am sure I beg your pardon. Miss Chudleigh, but you must 
scold Nora, not me, for she is the culprit; she warned me 
once that Oscar was up to his old tricks, and went far too often 
to the Witchens, but I only laughed at her — “Young men 
will have their fling,” I said.^ 

“ ‘ I am very much obliged for this confldence,^ I began, 
stiffly,— -you know how awkward I can be, — but Miss Stewart 
only looked at me in an amused sort of way, and began to 
laugh,— she has rather a pretty laugh. 

“ ‘No, you are not a bit obliged to me ; you think me a very 
blunt, disagreeable sort of person. You are wondering how 
any stranger can take such a liberty, but I canT help all that. 
I always was blunt, and age does not mend matters, and in 
short I had my reasons. Now, Miss Chudleigh, I told you a 
bit of a flb just now, only I did not see how to put things. I 
am not engaged to my cousin, but he is engaged to me. Just 
let me tell you about it. I have my reasons for being confi- 
dential, and they are not bad reasons. It has always been 
understood between the two families that Oscar and I were 
to marry each other ; but when he proposed three years ago, 
E did not accept him deflnitely, and this was the case each 
time he spoke to me on the subject. Did you speak for I 
gave some sort of exclamation at this. ‘I suppose you are 
surprised at my obduracy. Yes, Oscar has proposed three 
times : but when a girl is rich,^ and here she sighed a little as 
thougli the sense of her own wealth overwhelmed her, ‘ and 
the young man has college debts, and has besides an unfor- 
tunate propensity for flirting, it is only wise to be on one^s 
guard.^ 

“ ‘And you are not engaged to him even now I observed, 
for somehow I did not seem to dislike her so much as she 
went on talking. She is evidently an original sort of little 
person. 


^OSCAR IS A SAD BOY.^^ 


263 


“ *No,^ but looking at me in a queer kind of way, ‘ but all 
the same I mean to marry Oscar in the spring, and have 
written to tell him so. How surprised you look ! But he is 
engaged to me, you see ; and this was the arrangement be- 
tween us, that I was to tell him when I had made up my 
mind that he was to be trusted. Of course, as he has said 
himself over and over again, he has been ready for me these 
three years. ^ 

“ ‘And you have made up your mind to trust him?^ but 
here she laughed again a little wickedly. 

“‘Well, no, but I am afraid of his getting into mischief, 
and I think it will be the best for him to have a sensible wife 
to look after him, Miss Chudleigh,^ and she looked at me 
rather nicely. ‘ Please don^t go away with the notion that I 
am a very forward, peculiar person to have told you all this, 
for I meant it for the best. I am afraid I know a little too 
much, and that Oscar has been a bad boy. Will you tell your 
sister from me that if I did not know that it would be the 
best and happiest thing for Oscar to marry me, and that no 
other woman had so great a right to be his wife, I would hesi- 
tate even now? But I know him, and I know in time I shall 
make him happy. Please give my love to her and then the 
tears came into her eyes, and before I could answer her 
she had left me and joined Mrs. Roskill in the drawing- 
room.” 

“ Upon my word, Paul, I believe she meant well. It was 
an uncommonly plucky thing for a girl to do. You may de- 
pend upon it some busybody or other has told her about that 
fellow’s attention to our Bee.” 

“ But, Launce, surely she would not marry him if she really 
believed him to be in love with another girl?” 

“ Well, you see, she regards him as her own property, and 
does not feel inclined to yield her rights. One thing is very 
evident, that she regards Bee as a formidable rival.” 

“ How do you mean?” 

“ Well, I expect that Hamblyn has been trying to free him- 
self, and that in the attempt he has only drawn his bonds 
tighter. Poor wretch, one would be half inclined to pity him, 
for I believe he is as much in love with Bee as his selfish nature 
will allow him to be, if one were not so savage with him for 
the mischief he has done ! Confound the fellow, why could 
he not let our little Bee alone ! How dare he make love to her 
when he knew he was bound to marry another woman !” 

“ Don’t you think Miss Stewart might set him free if she 
really knew the circumstances of the case, — how much they 
cared for each other, and—” but here Pauline stopped, half 
frightened by the frown on Launcelot’s face. 

“ For heaven’s sake, don’t hint at such a thing ! Better any 
unhappiness than such a marriage as that. Fond of him as 
she is. Bee would never consent to such an arrangement ; I 
know my sister better than that. With all her faults, Bee 


264 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


would be too proud and honest to rob another ^rl of her just 
rights. What was Miss Stewart^s message to her ? Tell me 
again ; it seems to me that the words were very pregnant with 
meaning. 

‘‘ ‘ Will you tell your sister from me,’ ” began Pauline, slowly, 
** ‘that if I did not know that it would be the best and hap 

E iest thing for Oscar to marry me, and that no other woman 
as so great a right to be his wife, I would hesitate even now ; 
but I know him, and I know in time that I shall make 
him happy.’ ” 

“ Exactly so ; she knows him to be a weak, fickle, self-indul- 
gent fellow, who cares more for himself than for any one else. 
No doubt she is quite correct in her estimate of his character. 
She will fill his empty purse, pay his debts, and give him a 
comfortable home and all the luxuries his miserable soul de- 
lights in; and in return he will make her a tolerably good hus- 
band, though he will be rather sulky and unmanageable at 
first. But she had better make up her mind to one fact, — 
nothing will cure him of his fiirting, not the prettiest wife in 
the world. He is the sort of fellow who can’t be near a 
woman without making love to her.” 

Pauline shrugged her shoulders at this description, and then 
she said, a little plaintively, — 

“ Oh, never mind about him ; the question is how are we to 
tell Bee?” and at this question Launcelot looked exceedingly 
grave. He seemed to think deeply, and after a few minutes’ 
silence he said, quietly, — 

“ I think we will not tell her at all.” 

“But, Launce — ” 

“My dear, a day or two’s delay will not matter. Why 
should either you or I discharge such a cruel task ? Let him 
tell her himself, — he must, sooner or later. Depend upon it, 
Paul, that there will be a letter before many days are over.” 

“ But think of the dreadful shock, — oh, Launce !” and here 
the tears came into Pauline’s eyes. 

“ Should we lessen the shock by telling her ourselves? Can 
any form of words palliate the fact that he has won her affec- 
tion under false pretences, and that he is bound to marry 
another woman ? How are we to sweeten such a piece of in- 
telligence as that?” 

“ And we are to wait for that dreadful letter ?” 

“ Yes, I believe that will be the best plan. You must not think 
me hard or unsympathizing, Paul, but I am boiling over with 
rage when^ think of the power that fellow has got. Why 
cannot one punish such a sin as that ? When I think how 
helpless and innocent many girls are, how little they know of 
a man’s nature, how credulous and unsuspecting they are,— 
the fond fools,— I am full of wrath against the men who play 
them false. I should like to give them something that they 
would carry to their dying day, to teach them not to play 
with such sacred things as girls’ hearts and women’s honor 


^^OSCAR IS A SAD BOY,^ 


265 


But there, I am sick of the subject ! Let us go in, — we shall 
do Bee no good if we talk here until morning. 

And so saying he rose from the bench and Pauline followed, 
almost too awe-struck to speak. She had never seen Launce- 
lot so stern, so angry, in all her life before. The concentrated 
bitterness of his tone certainly showed no want of feeling, 
only a man sometimes shows his sympathy by righteous in- 
dignation. 

Pauline passed a restless night ; a strange medley of ideas 
haunted her waking and dreaming thoughts. Her dread of 
Bee^s unhappiness was every now and then crossed by a vivid 
remembrance of something Dr. Maxwell had said, or a sudden 
recollection of how he had looked. 

“Nothing would ever make him do a dishonorable thing 
she said to herself. “He is so unselfish and so absolutely 
true, he would bear anything rather than make a girl un- 
h^py,” finished Pauline, with girlish faith in her own ideal. 

Neither Launcelot nor Pauline enjoyed their breakfast the 
next morning. Bee was in one of her most lively moods ; 
she questioned them about the party, and wanted to know 
whom Launcelot had taken in to dinner. 

“Miss Stewart, — what sort of a person was she, Launce?^^ 
she asked, innocently, and her brother’s careless “Oh, a 
plain, over-dressed little body, with very little to say for her- 
self,” seemed to satisfy her. 

“And Dr. Maxwell took Paul in?” 

“ Yes,” answered Pauline, with a sudden blush ; “and he 
was very nice and amusing as usual, and I had dear old Col- 
onel Dacre on my other side, so I was well off. I was rather 
sorry for poor Launce, he looked so bored.” 

But Pauline, as she talked, hardly dared to look at her sis- 
ter's bright, smiling face. 

“What are you going to do this morning, Launce?” she 
asked, as they rose from the table. 

Bernard— lazy fellow !— had not yet put in an appearance, 
and Bee had rung for fresh coffee and a hot rasher or two of 
bacon. 

“Why don’t you let Bear have cold coffee?” grumbled 
Launcelot, as he heard her order. “What business has a 
strong, healthy fellow to lie in bed half the morning ? — sitting 
up late reading, — nonsense ! as though that is any excuse : it 
is pure laziness. What did you ask me, Paul? oh, what am I 
going to do? Well, I have an idea for a new picture,-— it 
came into my head last night, so I am going to shut myself 
up in the studio. Now then, Bear, what have you to say for 
yourself?” 

“That I am uncommonly hungry,” remarked Bernard, 
nodding affably to his sisters, and seating himself at the de- 
serted breakfast-table. He wore white fiannels, and looked a 
perfect embodiment of a handsome, healthy young English- 
man. 

M 23 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


There is fresh colfee coming, Bernard,” remarked Bee, as 
she saw him reach across the table for the coiFee-pot, “ and 
some bacon and an egg.” 

“ You are a duck,” was Beards answer to this. “ Kerens your 
health, my lass, and a good husband for you before the year is 
out. Now then, Launce, what^s up, old fellow ?” 

‘‘I used to think ten hours’ sleep rather too much at your 
age. Bear : but times have changed, so pray don’t apologize. 
Perhaps the poor boy would like an omelet, or a devilled kid- 
ney ; pray see after his little comforts. Bee.” But as Launce- 
lot levelled this sarcasm, Bernard only threw his head back 
with a laugh of inteuse enjoyment. 

“ You are behind the times, my dear fellow ; we Oxford men 
know what suits our constitution. * Take plenty of rest,’ as 
Dr. Phillpot said last term, so I am carrying out his prescrip- 
tion. Now, then, Fenwick, look sharp ; some more toast, and 
you may as well boil another egg while you are about it.” 

But Launcelot heard no more. He went off to his studio, 
and was presently so absorbed in sketching out a subject for a 
new picture that he almost forgot Bee’s prospective trouble. 
He took a hurried luncheon, and then went back to his work. 
Bernard, who had passed the morning in a hammock, pre- 
tending to read, announced his intention of taking Pauline 
and Sybil on the river. ‘‘I can’t take more than two,” he 
observed, and Bee consoled Dossie by proposing that th^ 
should take their work and books into the shrubbery. It 
will be cool there, and we will have tea under the trees,” and 
Dossie thought this a charming arrangement. 

Launcelot worked on, oblivious of time as usual ; he was 
thankful when any occupation deadened thought, — a sort of 
fiend of discontent and disappointed longing seemed to lie in 
wait for his leisure hours. In his secret soul he began to fear 
whether he should ever enjoy the dolce far niente again, — 
whether pleasure had not become an unknown ingredient in 
his life. 

Things might be worse, however, he told himself, with grim 
philosophy, — if he had not his work, for example ; he had 
feared at first that he should never care to paint another 
picture, but a curious fancy, an embodiment of his own sad 
thoughts, had come into his head, and he was anxious to work 
it out. 

“ That is the best of being an artist or a poet,” he thought 
dreamily that afternoon. “ In one sense one must live a lie 
and pretend to be happy at all costs, but there need be no pre- 
tence in one’s work. The hidden trouble may color the picture 
or give expression to the poem, and no one is the wiser ; the real 
and fabled woe may be so cunningly blended that the keenest 
eye cannot detect the reality. I suppose ‘ I can suck melan- 
choly out of a song,’ with any melancholy Jacques. * Motley 
is the only wear’ for most fools, but a man may change the 
color of his coat when his heart or his head grows gray.’* 


^^OSGAR IS A SAD 267 

And here Launcelot sighed, and then set himself in dogged 
fashion to complete his hasty sketch. 

The afternoon shadows were deepening on the lawn, and 
he was just making up his mind to put away his work for the 
day and take a walk before dinner, when a hesitating knock 
at the door, followed by a dog^s scratching, informed him 
that Dossie and Beppo were seeking admittance. 

As this was against the rules, Launcelot pretended to frown 
as he opened the door, but the first glance at the child^s face 
made him say hastily, “ What is the matter, ma 'petite f Has 
any one frightened you or Beppo for Dossiers blue eyes had 
a scared look in them. 

I think I was a little frightened, Mr. Lance, she returned, 
in her old-fashioned, punctilious way. “ I am afraid there is 
something the matter with Cousin fiee, she looks quite dread- 
ful. We were — ” 

“ Why, what do you mean, Dossie?’^ 

“Well, we were laughing and talking, and then Fenwick 
brought her a letter, and she looked, oh, so pale, as she read 
it, and she will not answer or say a word, and looks just as 
though she were dazed, so I thought I would come and tell 
you.^^ 

“ Always a wise little woman, Dossie, putting his hand on 
the fair hair that was now Madella's pride. “ Thank you, 
my dear ; I will go to Bee at once. Never mind coming with 
me ; I dare say she and I will do better alone. So it has 
come he muttered to himself, as he crossed the lawn, won- 
dering what he was to say and do in such a painful emer- 
gency. 

But there was no hesitation at all about his manner when 
he saw her face. The poor girl looked as though she were 
turned to stone ; her pretty color had gone, and there was a 
faded look about her face that made him set his teeth and 
mutter a word that was hardly a blessing, while the pained, 
incredulous expression in her eyes gave him a sort of shock. 
She did not speak, only looked at him, and tightened her 
grasp on the paper that lay on her lap. 

“ 1 know all about it. Bee,” he said, gently. “ Will you let 
me read the letter?” And without waiting for her permis- 
sion he stooped and unlocked the clinched fingers, which 
somehow became cold and nerveless in his grasp ; but as he 
turned away to read it he saw a long shiver pass over her. 
“Now let me see what the fellow has to say for himself,” he 
thought, as his eye ran over the page. 

“ My own darling,” it began, “ how am I to prepare you for 
bad news? How am I to tell you, after all my protestations 
of affection, that cruel necessity obliges me to resign you? 
Yes, it has come to this, that we must part. I must never 
hope to win you for my wife. The future that we were to 
have shared together has become an impossibility, — and yet 
[ love you as dearly as ever. I wonder if you will ever for- 


268 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


give me ? I have treated you badly, but at least I can plead 
the force of temptation. How could I see you without loving 
you ? Let this excuse me a little in your eyes, if your people 
blacken me to you. 

But now I must confess my sins. I have spoken to you 
of my cousin. Erica Stewart, but I never told you that three 
years ago I made her an offer. That offer was renewed from 
time to time, until it was arranged between us that I was to 
consider myself bound to her until she chose to accept me. 

“ I have no excuse to make for this. I did not love my 
cousin, but we were good friends ; and I was poor and in dif- 
ficulties, and Erica was very generous. 

“ I thought little about the matter, and the future never 
troubled me until I met you, my darling, and then — then — 
the old bonds grew hateful and I struggled to be free. But 
no, at my first word Erica told me that she considered w^e 
were engaged. And I, what could I say ? How could I an- 
swer her when I knew I was bound to her by every tie of 
honor and gratitude ? 

“ I will not speak to you of my unhappiness. I must dree 
my weird. Surely it is sufficient punishment for all my ill 
doings to know that I have lost you, and by my own fault 
But at least I may entreat your forgiveness — I may ask you 
to think mercifully of 

** Your devoted penitent 

“ Oscar Hamblyn.^^ 

A dark look came over Launcelot^s face as he read. “ Would 
his honor have bound him if Erica Stewart were poor?’^ he 
said to himself. And then he replaced the letter in the en- 
velope, and sat down by his sister. 

“ You must face it. Bee, like a brave woman. 

It is true, then?^^ fixing her heavy eyes on him. 

“Yes, dear, it is unfortunately too true. Pauline and I 
were wafting for this letter. You know, we met Miss Stewart 
last night. She told Paul all about her connection with Ham- 
blyn. He has treated both of you as badly as possible. But 
before we talk about that let me give you her message and 
very slowly Launcelot repeated the words, for there was a 
blank, uncomprehending look in Bee’s eyes that told him the 
sharp anguish she was suffering had somewhat dulled her 
faculties. “ So you see,” he finished softly, “ that Miss Stew- 
art knows aU about it too, and has forgiven him his faithless- 
ness ; and yet it seems to me that his sin against her has been 
greater than even his transgression against you. She is de- 
termined to make the best of her bad bargain and to marry 
him off-hand.” But to this Bee made no sort of reply, and 
it may be doubted whether she even heard the words. 


a brave little WOMANS' 




CHAPTER XXXIII. 

‘‘be A BRAVE LITTIiE WOMAl4.^^ 

“ I would speak of his chivalry— for I can call it nothing else— in dally 
life: a chivalry which clothed the most ordinary and commonplace 
duties with freshness and pleasantness. I soon discovered that an un- 
swerving resolution at all times and under all circumstances to spare 
himself no trouble, and to sustain life at a lofty level, was the motive of 
this chivalry,”— T/ie JRev. W. Hain'ison's opinion of Charles Kingsley^ 

Launcelot remained silent for a few minutes after this. 
What word of comfort could he essay that could reach the 
half-stunned brain and heart, that seemed unable to realize 
the full extent of the blow? If only his step-mother were 
here ! What did he know of a girPs nature, — its possibilities 
of self-torture, its want of discipline, its instinctive abhor- 
rence of pain? He could only know how to deal with him- 
self ; from the first moment that terrible trouble had fallen 
upon him, he had told himself that no spoken sympathy 
could avail to comfort him. His strength lay in silence ; his 
self-respect, his peace of mind, depended on it. “People may 
guess, may suspect, he said to himself, “ but the thing shall 
only fee known in its fulness to myself and my God.^^ But as 
he looked at Bee^s strained eyes* wide with the misery she 
could not quite realize, he doubted whether silence would be 
equally efficacious in her case. She was so young, and youth 
needs to give expression to its thoughts. With a delicacy of 
perception that few men would have shown under the circum- 
stances, he had refrained from any loudly-uttered vitupera- 
tions against the man who had wrought all this wrong. His 
words had been few and temperate. “He has treated you 
both as badly as possible,” he had said ; and then he had 
given it as his opinion that Oscar^s sin had been greater 
against Miss Stewart. He had said as much as this, but he 
kmew better than to break the bruised reed by telling Bee that 
the man she loved was a weak, dishonorable fool, who, after 
all excuses had been made, was most certainly selling his 
birthright of honest manly choice for the good things of this 
life. If Miss Stewart had been poor, would he have been so 
sure that honor compelled him to marry her? he thought 
bitterly. Would he not have kicked over the traces long ago 
and jilted her, as a hundred men have jilted girls? But on 
this point he kept silence then and forever. Bee would dis- 
cover her lover’s unworthiness for herself in time ; any at- 
tempt to paint him in his true colors would only make her 
distrustful of her brother’s sympathy and turn her against 
her best friend. 

So when he spoke at last there was nothing galling in his 

23 * 


270 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


^eecli. “ Oh, you poor little child V' he said, tendeily, “hoTV 
I wish Madella were here to talk to you 

The tone, more than the words, touched her frozen brain, 
and the tears started to her eyes. 

“ Does mother know ? I should like to go to her, I — I— you 
are very kind and dear, Launce, but I can^t stop here. I — 
and here the tears began to flow, and Bee hid her face in her 
trembling hands, and wept as though her young heart would 
break. 

“Curse the scoundrel muttered Launcelot between his 
teeth, and then he repented : “ No, not that. I will be neither 
his nor any man^s judge. * Deliver us from evil,^ let me say 
that instead and then he tried to take his sister^s hand, biit 
she resisted, still weeping passionately. “ Mother ! it is mother 
I want,^^ he heard her say through her sobs. 

“ Yes, dear, we will go together,— to-morrow or the next 
day, if you like. Freckles is well enough to be moved now. 
You must let me take you, and then I can tell Madella. No, 
she does not know yet,^^ as Bee uttered a faint exclamation ; 
“ only Pauline and I know at present, but I will show her the 
letter, and repeat Miss Stewart^s conversation, and then she 
will understand what to say to you.^^ 

“But you will not speak against him to mother ; promise 
me, — promise me, Launce, that you will not.” 

“ Have I been so hard to you that you cannot trust me. 
Bee?” putting on a hurt manner. 

“ Oh, no, you have been so good, so kind. You have said 
as little as possible ; but, of course,” in a voice of despair, “ I 
know what you think about it all.” 

“ Never mind that. Bee ; be a brave little woman, and we 
shall love you all the better for this.” Then she put her head 
down on his shoulder, and, though she still wept, Launcelot 
knew those quiet tears would only relieve the oppressed heart. 

“ I must write to him,” she whispered, after a time. “ I 
must answer that letter.” 

“ Is it absolutely necessary. Bee?” 

“ Yes — yes — of course. Do you not see how unhappy he is. 
how ashamed of his position ? If I only send three words J 
must tell him he is forgiven. Oh ! Launce,” and here she 
shuddered, “ I thought in a few years I should have i)een his 
wife, and he is going to marry her — soon — directly, and he 
does not love her — he loves me.” 

“You must not let your mind dwell on that fact; it will 
yield you small comfort in the future. True, the sin will be 
his, but. my child,” and here LaunceloPs voice took a deeper 
ana sadder intonation, “you would not willingly— if you 
could help it, I mean— love another woman^s husband?” 

“How am I to unlove him?” she returned, almost in de- 
spair. “ I do not mean to be wicked, but how am I to put 
away Oscar from my life and thoughts?” 

“Certain things kill love,” he returned, gloomily. “By 


A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAB.^^ 


271 


and by you will not love him, but it will not be time that 
will cure you ; no, in spite of yourself, in spite of all your 
heart is telling you now, a time will come when it will seem 
a sin and a shame even to think of him as you are thinking 
now, — when you will set yourself with the whole force of 
your will to efface that dearly-loved image. 

** Launce and, in spite of her own misery, Bee glanced at 
him in an awe-struck manner, there was such repressed pas- 
sion in his voice ; but he calmed himself at once at her look. 

‘‘ My dear little sister, this is a sad world. 

“ A hateful world, you mean.^^ 

‘‘No, not hateful, as long as Madella and a few good people 
are in it. I remember when I was your age. Bee, and some 
trouble had befallen me, a friend whom I loved and trusted 
had gone wrong. Well, I remember brooding over my woes 
like a great sulky baby. I even went so far as to tell Madella 
that I was sick of the world, and longed to die.” 

“Yes, Launce,” was the weary answer, and Launcelot 
knew the thought had come to her too. 

“Well, Madella smiled, — you know her way, — ‘You must 
be very young, my dear boy, to say that. It is what all young 
people say when the world goes wrong with them. Older 
people know that it is pure selfishness. What, die before 
your time comes — before your work is done ? leave your little 
corner of the vineyard choked up with weeds because, for- 
sooth, you are too tired and too heart-sick to work V And then 
the dear creature opened her Bible and read to me the parable 
of the laborers. ‘And you, too, would claim your penny a 
day,^ she said, gently, ‘who wish to lay down your tools and 
go home before even the noontide heat begins ! I wonder 
what the Master of the vineyard would say to that Bee, I 
never forgot that little sermon. Whatever sorrow falls to my 
share in life, I do not wish to die until my time comes ; it is 
cowardly to shrink even from prospective pain. ‘ I wonder 
what the Master of the vineyard would say to that often 
comes into my mind when I hear young people railing against 
their circumstances.” 

“ Oh, Launce, I wish I were good like you and mother !” 

“ Thank God instead that you have not to answer for youi 
brother’s sins ; child that you are, what do you know of a 
man’s temptations?” and then again he calmed himself with 
difficulty, and, kissing her forehead, begged her not to talk any 
more, but to go in and rest ; and she rose obediently and left 
him alone to one of the bitterest hours that he had ever passed. 

But the foul fiend Despair and all his train of hideous satel- 
lites — doubt, mistrust, suspicion, envy, hatred, and all un- 
righteousness-vanished back after a time into their pit of 
darkness, vanquished by the sturdy honesty and courage that 
confronted them. 

“What has happened is by the will of God, who has per- 
mitted these sad accidents and failures for His own wise pur 


272 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


poses. To Him I must commit both her future and mine.'^ 
But by “her/^ Launcelot was not speaking of Bee. For the 
time being he had forgotten her ; the flood-gates of passion 
were set open, and strange waters drenched his soul with 
their salt waves. “ All Thy waves and Thy billows have gone 
over me.” Ah, not all, Launcelot ; only such a portion as may 
cleanse the world-worn spirit, rebaptizing it with a bitter but 
most healing baptism. “The Lord sitteth upon the flood,” 
or, as the revised edition has it, “ sat as king at the flood.” 
Oh, the fulness of meaning involved in that ! “Yea, the Lord 
sitteth as king forever ;” and then follows the exquisite bene- 
diction, “ The Lord will give strength to His people — the Lord 
will bless His people with peace.” 

Launcelot did not tell himself this in so many words, though 
the sorrow of all the ages could have found expression in the 
words of the shepherd-king ; but in a dim sort of way he was 
living up to them, and by so doing ennobling himself in the 
process. 

Suffer as he must, he was not morbid ; when he told him- 
self that he had not sinned consciously for a single moment, 
that his love for Joan was a grief and a mistake and utterly 
useless as far as his happiness in this world was concerned, 
but, as he knew, no sin, he was speaking absolute truth. 
He was a man, and not an angel, and therefore he had not 
foreseen such a calamity. But for what followed, his daily 
life, his daily thoughts, in what mode he carried that cross 
of his, — it was for these things he was responsible. Here was 
the battle-ground where flends might congregate, but for the 
future, — his future and hers — that most precious and faulty 
of women, — well, God must take care of His own, thought 
Launcelot, feeling utterly baffled and wearied. And, lo and 
behold, the demons had fled, and in their place was the sun- 
set sky and the sweet breath of firs and the loveliness of a 
world that even man^s sin cannot spoil, and a thought of 
peace came nestling to his harassed heart. “Yes, it will be 
over one day. It is a hard flght ; harder than that poor child 
who is weeping yonder will ever guess ; it takes a man^s 
strength to cope with it ; but there will be rest by and by 
when the end comes and the wages are paid. And 1 wonder 
what the Master of the vineyard will say when — when — ” 
But Launcelot did not flnish the sentence, only he looked into 
the crimson^ clouds with their edges tipped with gold, and his 
eyes grew^lm and clear, and his head was erect, and then 
he thought of his new picture and smiled at his own quaint 
fancies, and so the dark hour faded from his memory. 

But before the evening had passed he received a message 
from Bee. She had shut herself up in her own room, refusing 
admittance to every one, though Pauline had pleaded with 
tears to be allowed to speak to her. When Launcelot obeyed 
her summons, he found the tray with the untasted food still 
on the threshold. Pauline, who had accompanied him on tip- 


A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN.^^ 


273 


toe, shook her head at the sight. ‘‘She has eaten nothing; 
she will be ill,^^ she faltered ; for to her healthy, robust organi- 
zation the loss of even one meal appeared serious. People 
must eat, even when they are in trouble, thought Pauline, 
this being the creed of many well-meaning simpletons. But 
Launcelot knew better than Pauline here. He remembered 
that terrible night when sheer physical faintness had driven 
him to take a glass of claret and a morsel of bread, when the 
sight of a full meal would have turned him sick, and then he 
took a small roll and a glass of wine off the tray and begged 
his sister, in a whisper, to carry the remainder away. 

All the rooms at the Witchens were pretty, but it was al- 
lowed by everybody that Bee^s room was by far the prettiest ; 
it was just what a girPs room ought to be, fresh and dainty, 
and full of graceful souvenirs. 

Bee sat by the window ; she had put on a cream-colored 
tea-gown, perhaps for coolness, and her hair was pushed away 
from her face ; Launcelot thought she looked years older even 
in those few hours. “There it is, Launce,^^ she said, holding 
out a folded paper. “ I have been trying all this time to write 
it, but I can do nothing better, and I think it must go as 
it is.^^ 

“ May I read it. Bee V' 

“Oh, yes, you may read it ; there is nothing that the whole 
world may not see. Yesterday we belonged to each other, 
but to-day everything is changed, but at least he shall know 
that I have no anger against him.^^ 

“ My dear Oscar, it began, “ of course you will expect an 
answer to your letter ; but when I try to write there seems so 
little that I can say. When you tell me that we must have 
nothing more to do with each other, that you and I must say 
good-by as far as this world is concerned, it seems to me that 
there is nothing more to be said. Of course I am dreadfully 
unhappy, but you do not need me to tell you that any girl 
would be unhappy when she has received such a letter. But 
you need not fear any reproaches on my part ; I have forgot- 
ten already how much I have to forgive. If you have done 
wrong, at least you are doing right now ; your cousin has the 
first claim on you, and I do not wish to say another word on 
this subject. 

“Good-by, dear Oscar. I am afraid I am writing coldly, 
and that this letter will disappoint you. I shall be sorry for 
that, for I would like to comfort you, but such comfort is not 
for me to give ; still I shall pray always for your future hap- 
piness. Your sincere friend, 

“ Beatrix CnuDLEiaH. 

“ P.S.-— God bless you ! Yes, I do forgive I I do 

As Launcelot read it his eyes grew misty. “ It is too good 
for him. Bee, but all the same it shall goP^ 


274 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


“ Will you send it by this evening^s post?^' 

Oh, yes, there is no use in delay. Well, what is it, dear ?^‘ 
for she was looking at him very wistfully. 

“I was thinking of mother. When will you take me to 
her — to-morrow 
*‘Oh, no, not to-morrow. 

“ Why not?^^ she persisted, in a fretful voice. But Launce- 
lot evaded this question ; he did not dare tell her that he 
knew she would be unfit to travel the next day, so he pre- 
tended to turn the matter over in his mind while he broke 
bread into the wine and fed her with his own hand as 
though she were a baby. I am thinking about it ; let me 
see you finish this, and then I will tell you my plans,” he 
said, quietly, and actually she obeyed him like a child. 

“ I will do what I can for you,” he said at last ; “ to-morrow 
would not suit me at all, but I will take you to Eastbourne on 
the following day. I will write to Madella by this evening^s 

S )st to tell her to pack up and join us, and I will telegraph to 
onaldson to get these rooms for us ; we were to have the re- 
fusal, you know. I could stop a day or two, and then I can 
leave you and Madella together, and come back here. Will 
that suit you. Bee?” 

“Oh, yes; I suppose so,” and then, as though her words 
sounded ungracious, she added, “Thank you, dear Launce, 
for arranging it all so nicely ; I want mother, and I would 
rather be anywhere but here,” and Launcelot understood. 

He had reason to congratulate himself on his foresight the 
next day, when Pauline came down and told him that Bee 
was suffering with a miserable sick headache, and could not 
lift her head from the pillow. “ She has had a bad night, and 
this is the result,” observed Pauline, gloomily, for she was 
full of angry grief on her sister^s account. “ She sends her 
love to you, Launce, but she is not able to talk at present, so 
only Dossie is with her fanning her to sleep.” 

“Dossie ?” 

“ Yes. Is it not odd that Bee should have such a fancy for 
the child, when she was so against your bringing her into the 
house ? She will let Dossie do things for her when she will 
not allow Sybil to come near her. But then Sybil is so 
noisy.” 

“ I don^t think any of us could spare Dossie now,” replied 
Launcelot. “A child^s influence can make itself felt, after 
all. I think Dossiers great charm is that she never thinks of 
herself.” 

“ Yes, and then she is growing so pretty.” 

“Not exactly; Dossie will never be pretty, not even when 
she grows up, — and she is growing fast, she is nearly eleven 
now ; but she will be very spirituelle-looking. Her face has 
great capabilities ; she has a hundred different expressions 
now.” But this was beyond Pauline. 

An unexpected visitor called that afternoon. Pauline had 


A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN,^^ 


273 


lust gone up to sit with Bee, and Launcelot was crossing the 
hall on his way to the studio, when he saw Miss Hamblyn 
come up to the front door, and without waiting for Fenwick 
he ushered her gravely into the drawing-room. 

Miss Hamblyn seemed rather confused when she saw him : 
her serene self-possession failed her. “I came to see Bee/* 
she said, hurriedly. 

“I am sorry,** returned Launcelot, civilly. ‘‘Bee has a 
headache and can see no one, and Pauline is with her. I 
am vexed that you should have this long journey for 
nothing.** 

“ Is Bee ill?** with real feeling in her voice. “ Oh, I dreaded 
this; but, Mr. Chudleigh, I can go up to her, can I not? I 
know she would like to see me, especially after what has 
passed.** 

“It is best to tell the truth. Miss Hamblyn. Bee is very 
much upset by your brother*s letter, and I cannot allow her 
to be agitated by any more talk ; you are the last person I 
should wish her to see.** 

“You are angry; you think it is my fault?** she asked, 
quickly. 

“ Why should you say such things? I am angry with your 
brother ; he has not behaved like a gentleman. He has 
treated two women badly, and one of them is my sister. 
Any man would feel himself aggrieved by such conduct.** 

“You are right : Oscar has been as bad as possible ; it is his 
nature to flirt. I used to lecture him, indeed I did, Mr. 
Chudleigh ; but he would not listen to me. I begged him not 
to flirt with Bee, but he was infatuated.** 

“A word from you would have put a stop to it. Miss Ham- 
blyn,** returned Launcelot, in an icy manner. 

“ A word from me ! why, I spoke hundreds of words.** 

“Yes, where they were of no avail ; but one word would 
have opened Bee*s eyes and prevented all this misery. If 
you had only mentioned Miss Stewart*s name, nothing of 
this would have happened ; but you preferred to indulge j^our 
brother in his little games, and to see your friend sacrificed ; 
and this is your notion of friendship. A man would not 
treat another man so.** 

“ Mr. Chudleigh, how can you be so hard and stern, and I 
have made myself quite miserable about Bee ; but perhaps I 
ought not to wonder that you are so sore about it. You must 
hate the sight of us, I think. Well, it is no use talking, so I 
may as well go ; you will give my dear love to Bee, will you 
not ?** 

“ I did not wish her to know you had been here. Do you 
mind my keeping that message to myself. Miss Hamblyn?** 

“ Oh, no ; I see what you mean. Perhaps I had better not 
come again just yet, it would only disturb her. I am very 
sorry, I am indeed, Mr. Chudleigh ; 1 wish it had happened 
to anv but Bee.** 


276 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


‘‘And this is a woman^s notion of friendship/’ thought 
Launcelot, as he watched the tall figure recede into the dis- 
tance. “ That girl is a humbug ; I always said so.^’ And 
then he made up his mind that he would bring Madella 
round to his opinion, and get her to break off all acquaint- 
ance with the Hamblyns. 

Launcelot was able to carry out his plan, for the next day, 
when they arrived at their destination, they found the other 
travellers had already ensconced themselves in the comfort- 
able lodgings. Freckles rushed down-stairs to greet them. 

“It is an awfully iolly house,^^ he observed, rapturously; 
“ there are two couclies and six easy-chairs in the drawing- 
room, and I have tried them all and don’t know which to 
choose. What a lark bringing Bee ! Yes, mater’s up-stairs, 
so go ahead.” 

“My darling, what a delicious surprise!” exclaimed Mrs. 
Chudleigh, as Bee hurried up to her. “ When I got your let- 
ter, Launce, telling me Bee was coming too, I was quite ex- 
cited. Oh !’ ’ a soft, long ‘ ‘ oh’ ’ of infinite meaning. One glance 
at the poor girl’s face told the mother everything. 

“ Come along. Freckles ; show me where the luggage is to go. 
Which is Bee’s room and which is mine? I want you to help 
me with my Gladstone. Stay here a moment, I left my bag 
in the drawing-room.” But Launcelot, as he spoke, closed the 
door again precipitately. 

One glance showed him what he wanted to know. Bee’s 
bonnet was oflT, and she was sitting on the couch with her head 
on her mother’s shoulder. 

“ Tell me all about it, my darling. Of course I see you are 
unhappy ; tell your mother everything. What is the good of 
having children if one is not to help them in their troubles !” 
finished Mrs. Chudleigh, fondling her girl’s hand as she spoke. 

“ It is good for us that God made women so,” thought Launce- 
lot as he walked slowly away. But it is doubtful what he meant 
by this vague speech. Was it of Bee he was thinking, or of the 
mother-love that was encompassing her ? “I am glad I brought 
her,” he said to himself. “ Of course she will be unhappy every- 
where for a time, poor child ! but she will be less unhappy 
here.” And then he resolved that he would go back again to 
the Witchens as soon as possible and begin his picture. 


“Oif, YES: HE COMES EVERT SUNDAY.^^ 


271 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“ OH, YICS ; HE COMES EVERY SUNDAY.” 

“ He smiled as men smile when they will not speak, 

Because of something bitter in the thought; 

And still I feel his melancholy eyes 
Look judgment on me.” 

Elizabeth Babrett Browning. 

Launcelot spent three days at Eastbourne, and then he 
came back to his work. 

A strange stillness seemed to permeate the Witchens. Geof- 
frey and Bernard were yachting with a friend, and Pauline 
spent her mornings in the school-room, and generally walked 
or drove with the little girls in the afternoon ; while Launce- 
lot worked in his studio from morning to evening, only in- 
dulging in a gallop or a six-mile walk before his dinner. 

Now and then, as he paced the long shrubberies and saw 
how the trees were putting on their gorgeous autumn tints, 
and watched the red and yellow leaves flutter to his feet, he 
told himself that he was growing old with the year, and that 
he should soon attain to the soberness of middle age. 

“ I am afraid Paul finds me a dull fellow,” he said to him- 
self. But Pauline would not have endorsed this opinion. To 
her he was the dearest and best of brothers ; she thought him 
the finest company in the world : his little jokes were miracles 
of wit in her eyes ; and she formed her opinions on his in the 
most unblushing, irresponsible way. 

‘‘I never found Launce wrong yet,” she would say trium- 
phantly when Bernard argued against him. No wonder 
Launcelot thought Pauline a sensible girl and was honestly 
pleased with her society. 

Mrs. Chudleigh remained away three weeks, and then 
Launcelot received a letter from her fixing her return for the 
next day. 

‘‘ Dear Fred has left us,” she wrote. “ He and Forbes Cun- 
ningham travelled together. Forbeses uncle went with them 
to London, so I was quite easy in my mind about Fred. 

“Of course there is nothing to keep me any longer from 
home, and I must see Bernard before he returns to Oxford, so 
you may expect me to-morrow by the 5.30 train from Waterloo. 
Dear Bee will not be with me ; she has decided to accept the 
Sylvesters* invitation. You know how often they have asked 
the girls, and they are your father*s cousins. They live in the 
prettiest part of Yorkshire, and the house and grounds are 
charming, and then the eldest girl Rosalind is such a nice 
girl, and just Bee*s age. 


24 


27S 


ONLY THE GOVEBNESS, 


** I think the change will do Bee good ; it is just the break 
tihe needs, and she does dread coming home so, poor darling ! 
On the whole, she has been very good and tries not to fret, but 
of course one sees what she suffers. It has been a trying time 
for both of us. There is nothing so hard to a mother as to see 
one of her children in trouble and not be able to share it. 
Sometimes I think Bee will never be the same girl again. 

“ You have wanted me to look after you,” was Launcelot^s 
greeting when he saw his step-mother’s tired face, and she 
did not contradict him. 

“ I always want you, my dear boy,” she said, affectionately ; 
“ but you are looking thin, Launce. Pauline tells me you are 
working far too hard.” 

‘‘Paul had better mind her own business. But there, I 
won’t scold her ; she has been a good girl. She has given 
Sybil and Dossie regular lessons, and she takes them out, and 
makes them as happy as possible.” 

“Yes, and it has been such a relief to my mind, for I was 
far too much engaged with poor dear Bee to look after another 
governess.” 

Then a cloud came over Launcelot’s face, and he changed 
the subject a little abruptly. 

“ How long will Bee stay at Craven?” 

“Just as long as she likes. I saw Emmeline’s letter, and it 
was as friendly as possible. She was to be sure to take her 
habit, for there would be plenty of hunting, and she hoped 
Bee would come prepared for a very long visit. They were 
going to have some nice people staying in the house, and they 
wanted to get up private theatricals.” 

“I should not have thought Bee would care for all that 
gayety just now.” 

“No ; she had a good cry when Emmeline’s letter arrived. 
She said it would be so hard not to enjoy anything, but all 
the same she made up her mind to go. I think she is very 
brave over her trouble, but one can see how deep it has gone.” 

“ Oh, yes ; Bee has plency of pluck : she is far too proud to 
wear the willow in public.” 

“ Yes ; but I doubt whether she will ever care for any one 
again. You have no idea how fond she was of him, poor 
girl ! and no wonder. For he was a most striking-looking 
man, and there was something very fascinating about him. 
And then he was so devoted to her.” 

“ A pretty sort of devotion !” 

“Yes ; of course he is utterly worthless, one sees that now. 
Oh, Launcelot ! I begin to wish we had never gone to Men- 
tone. I am so proud of Bee, and it would be such a pleasure 
to me to see her happily married. I always wanted my girls 
to marry. But now I am afraid if she ever settles it will be 
late in life, and I do dislike late marriages.” 

“My dear Madella, Bee is on^ twenty.” 

“ She will be twenty-one in November.” 


YES; HE COMES EVERY SUNDAY,^^ 


279 


“ What a great age ! And I shall be thirty-three next week. 
£ don^t think one^s fate is irrevocably fixed at twenty-one. 
Very few girls marry their first love, so cheer up, Madella. I 
dare say Bee will not be an old maid, after all.^^ 

Mrs. Chudleigh^s first drive after her return was to South 
Kensington, to call on Joan. 

She did not mention her intended visit to Launcelot ; never- 
theless he knew all about it, as he put her into the carriage. 

“Shall you go to Truro Square first or last?^^ he asked, 
coolly ; a question that nearly took her breath away, for how 
could he guess that Joan was in her mind ? 

“I did not say anything about it at luncheon, did I?” she 
asked, in rather a bewildered voice. 

“ No ; but I can read your thoughts sometimes. You are 
very transparent, Madella. Please give my kind remem- 
brances to Mrs. Thorpe. 

Mrs. Chudleigh^s first thought when she saw Joan was that 
she had grown more beautiful than ever, and yet there was 
something different in her expression. 

What could it be ? She was thinner, and certainly did not 
look happy, and yet she was less depressed than on the former 
visit. Her manner was a little restless and excited, but she 
greeted Mrs. Chudleigh with her old affection, and seemed 
unfeignedly glad to see her. 

“This is so good of you, dear Mrs. Chudleigh, she said 
again and again. 

“ Are you quite well, my dear ?” 

“ Yes, quite well. You know there is nothing ever wrong 
with my health. No amount of misery could Mil me, I be- 
lieve. Mrs. Medhurst has not a grain of excuse for all the 
petting she gives me ; but then the dear old lady does love to 
make a fuss.^^ 

“ I am so glad she is good to you, Joan.^^ 

“ Good is not the word ; she spoils me dreadfully. I must 
be the greatest prodigal ever known, for the fatted calf is daily 
prepared for me. I ‘ eat the fat and drink the sweet^ every 
day. Why do you shake your head? Am I quoting out of 
the Good Book ? Ah, a bad habit. I must break myself of 
that. Still I do as I like, and amuse myself from morning to 
night, and no one calls me to order. Just think of that ! Now, 
Mrs. Chudleigh, before I talk any more nonsense, let me ask 
after Fred.’^ 

“ He has gone back to Uppingham, and is as strong as ever, 
dear old fellow ! Bo you know, Joan, he was such a good boy 
all the time he was ill ; and I did so enjoy nursing him.^^ 

“ Well, I always said he was the nicest boy I ever knew. I 
was always fond of Fred. Pauline came to see me twice while 

S )u were away. It was so kind of her. She brought Sybil and 
ossie the first time, and they all stayed and had tea, to Mrs. 
Medhurst^s delight ; but the second time she came alone, — at 
least the little girls were in the carriage. 


280 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


There was something meaning in Joanns voice, for Mrs. 
Chudleigh said, quickly, “ I suppose she wanted to tell you 
about Bee?^^ 

Yes ; it was good of her to tell me, though it made me so 
miserable. I lay awake half the night thinking of you all. I 
knew how you would take it to heart, and Mr. Chudleigh, too, 
for he is so proud of his sisters ; but I always knew how it 
would be. I warned Mr. Chudleigh, and I tried to warn Bee» 
but I only made her angry with me.'^ 

“ Launcelot thinks it is a providential escape for her.^^ 

“He is right. I never had any opinion of that man, and 
then that hard, worldly sister of his aided and abetted him. 
I do hope Bee will have nothing more to do with her.^^ Ther 
Mrs. Chudleigh with much solemnity informed her that the 
Hamblyns had been so officious, and had shown such bad taste 
altogether in the matter, that she had taken her son^s advice, 
and had written to Lady Hamblyn telling her frankly that 
she thought it better to break off the acquaintance. “Nora 
was so pertinacious that I was obliged to do it,” she finished. 
“ She tried to see Bee, and when Launcelot prevented it she 
wrote to her once or twice begging to be allowed to come. They 
were very injudicious letters, for she spoke slightingly of her 
future sister-in-law, and hinted far too plainly about poor 
Oscar^s misery. Even Bee felt the bad taste, and offered no 
remonstrance when I spoke of breaking off all communication 
with the family.” 

“You did perfectly right,” returned Joan, with warm sym- 
pathy. “ Bee^s fancy for Miss Hamblyn will soon die a natural 
death. I always disliked her, — a cold, worldly-minded girl, 
who thinks of nothing but making a good settlement. It is 
just like their meanness to take Miss Stewart^s money and talk 
against her. I expect she is far too good for them.” 

“Well, it has been a sad business,” observed Mrs. Chud- 
leigh, with a sigh ; “but I must not talk only of my own 
affairs. How is Mr. Thorpe? I suppose he has been to see 
you.” 

“ Ivan? Oh, yes ; he comes every Sunday.” 

“ Is it possible ?” 

“Well, I suppose it is possible, for he comes;” and here a 
naughty sparkle came into Joanns eyes ; “ and he always takes 
me to church.” 

“My dear !” 

“Yes ; is it not a clever idea of his? Really, I never gave 
Ivan credit for such diplomacy ; you have no conception bow 
maiw difficulties it has solved.” 

“ I really do not understand you, Joan ; please tell me 
seriously what you mean.” 

“ Well, our tete-ci-tites were too awkward, and when Mrs. 
Medhurst was present it was even worse, for nothing would 
make me open my lips. I used to see Ivan get quite pale at 
last with suppressed nervousness, so one Sunday as we wer« 


“0^, YES; HE COMES EVERY SUNDAY.^* 281 

having tea he said rather shortly that we had better go to 
church, and ever since that we have gone together. 

“ I tnink it is very nice of him to take you, Joan.” 

“ I don^t know about the niceness, but it was extremely odd. 
I could hardly keep myself serious as we walked along that 
first Sunday. It seemed exactly as though I were a young 
woman whom Ivan was courting; it was my Sunday out, 
and we were walking together after the manner of young men 
and young women.” 

“My dear Joan, what an absurd idea,^your own hus- 
band !” 

“ Ah, but we are strangers now, and do not know each other 
a bit ; you cannot think how polite Ivan is to me. He asks 
me all sorts of questions as we walk along, and I answer them 
all like a dutiful young woman. I tell him where I walk, and 
what books I read, and the amount of fancy work I do. I 
even described to him the design for a tea-cloth that was in 
my mind, and he thought it would be extremely pretty.” 

Mrs. Chudleigh took no notice of the tone in which all this 
was said ; she only asked quietly what church they attended. 

“Oh, St. Barnabas. Ivan likes it best, and of course it is 
for him to choose ; he is always vexed if I don’t listen to the 
sermon, and he finds out all the hymns for me, and we often 
sing out of the sanie book, and then we go home, — back to 
Truro Square, I mean, — and if I am in a good temper I sing to 
them after supper.” 

“And you choose your husband’s favorite songs?” 

Joan only blushed, and made no reply to this. 

“ Does not Mr. Thorpe ever speak of himself, Joan?” 

“Of himself? Oh, no, I never give him the (mportunity ; 
he has the right to catechize me, and of course I answer all 
his questions, but I should hardly take the liberty of question- 
ing him in return.” 

“ I am sure he would like to be questioned.” 

“ Sometimes he speaks of his work, and tells me about any 
nice book he is reading, but I am careful not to appear too 
much interested.” But here she stopped, warned by the 
reproving look on Mrs. Chudleigh ’s face. 

“ My dear, I hope I did not hear you rightly.” 

“Why, what have I said?” asked Joan, with an air of 
injured innocence. 

“That you took care not to appear too much interested in 
your husband’s talk. Oh, Joan ! when you say these things 
you disappoint me terribly. Can anything be more generous 
than your husband’s behavior, in spite of all your un wifely 
conduct, in spite of all that has passed between you ? He is 
setting himself patiently and quietly to win your confidence ; 
he is trying to read what is in your heart, and whether he 
may ever hope to draw you closer to him ; and this is how 
you treat him.” 

Joan hung her head as though she were abashed by this 

24* 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


lust rebuke on her flippancy, but she answered, rather sul- 
lenly,— 

“I can^t help it. How am I to behave properly to Ivan 
when he keeps me at this distance? Of course I feel I am on 
my probation, and that makes me worse.^’ 

“ He is on his probation, you mean, poor fellow, and is fast 
losing heart, I should say. Ah ! it is all very well for you to 
make your little jests, and to send him back to his desolate 
home without one kind look or word to remember all the 
week ; but you are throwing away the most precious oppor- 
tunity in your life, an opportunity of being reconciled to 
your offended husband, and of atoning for all your past fail- 
ures. 

It is too late to atone for them. I must just let things go. 
I can read in Ivan^s eyes, in his every word and action, how 
little faith he has in me.^^ 

My dear, that is just a bit of the deviPs work. He knows 
that only pride ana jealousy are keeping you two apart, 
though neither of you will confess it, and so he tries to widen 
the breach by putting mocking speeches into your mouth. 
He knows that if you would only be like little children 
again, and kiss and make friends, no two people would be 
happier. But no, you hide away all your feelings under a 
jest.” 

“Don^t say anymore, dear Mrs. Chudleigh,” pleaded Joan, 
with a lovely look of penitence. “I know I have treated 
Ivan very badly, that I have teased instead of conciliating 
him, and that I have pretended to misunderstand all his hints 
that we should be friends ; but indeed I will behave better to 
him next Sunday.” 

** And you will question him a little about things that you 
know will interest him?” 

“Oh, no; I cannot promise to do that, but it will not be 
hardness or pride that keeps me silent, — you do not know how 
afraid I am of Ivan. Sometimes I dare not look at him, but 
if he talks to me I will show my interest in every possible 
way, and I will not tease him once, — not once, — I will promise 
you that.” 

“ Then I will not scold you any more. Now, I have some 
shopping to do for Pauline ; would you like to come with me? 
Perhaps the drive will do you good.” And as Joan joyfully 
acceded to this, they spent the remainder of the afternoon 
together. 

But in spite of her engrossing occupation, Mrs. Chudleigh 
noticed two things, — that wherever they went looks of admira- 
tion rested on Joanns charming face, and that the girl seemed 
perfectly unconscious of this. Her mood had changed from 
vague sadness and restlessness to almost childlike mirth ; 
she revelled in the sunshine, the movement ; every fresh 
novelty attracted her. “How happy every one looks!” she 
said once ; “ sometimes I think it is a sin to be miserable. I 


YES; HE COMES EVERY SUNDAY:^ 


283 


am happy myself because I am with you, you dear woman 
And Joan looked lovingly in her friend^s face. 

Mrs. Chudleigh did not retail any of this conversation to 
her son, neither did he question her, except very briefly, but 
she would have given much to know Mr. Thorpe^s opinion of 
those Sundays. 

Launcelot could have given her no information ; by tacit 
consent the two men saw very little of each other. Their 
friendship was still as deep as ever, deeper on Mr. Thorpe^s 
part, as he realized the mingled generosity and delicacy with 
which Launcelot had ignored his own trouble in the attempt 
to insure his friend^s happiness. Joanns husband was never 
likely to forget or think less of the man who had shielded 
her faults and pleaded so nobly on her behalf ; his gratitude 
to Launcelot was true as his own nature. “ There is nothing 
I would not do for him ; but he is right, — we are better apart 
just now,^^ Mr. Thorpe said to himself. “ If Joan ever comes 
back, he will see then what he is to both of us.^^ But here he 
sighed bitterly, for the doubt lay heavy in his mind, would 
she ever come back ? 

Alas ! those Sundays were fast becoming the torment and 
delight of his life ; through the week he counted the hours 
until he saw her again, and yet he never left her without that 
miserable numb feeling of disappointment. 

What was the use of gazing at her loveliness if he could not 
see one softened look on that fair face, when light, mocking 
words answered his most serious words, when she would not 
be grave or earnest for a moment unless they were alone to- 
gether, and then she froze into a statue ? 

It was just as though she said to him, “Yes, you are my 
husband, and I cannot refuse to obey you ; but you shall have 
nothing but passive obedience from me. I will not try to 
understand your wishes. I will talk or be silent as I like. I 
will not be coaxed into any show of interest. I will be abso- 
lutely free to follow my own whims. 

“ She hates me. I believe she loathes the very sight of me, 
or she would not treat me so.^^ And actually that hard, self- 
repressed man put down his head on the table and cried like 
a child with the sheer hopelessness and misery of it all. 

Mrs. Chudleigh paid Joan another visit during the following 
week. She was calling at a house just by, and she thought 
she would spend half an hour with the girl and see if her lec- 
ture had worked any beneflcial results. 

She found Joan in the pretty little sitting-room that had 
been allotted to her private use ; she was working at her em- 
broidery-frame, but looked rather pale and subdued. As usual 
she brightened up at the sight of her friend, and, in the bustle 
of flnding her a comfortable seat, ringing for tea, and waiting 
on her, asking questions all the time, she began to look more 
like herself. 

“Yes, I have everything I want, so please sit down. I can- 


284 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


not stay long, so we must get our talk over quickly. Did your 
husband come last Sunday, my dear, and cfid you keep your 
promise 

“I had no chance,’^ returned Joan, in rather a depressed 
voice, and then she tried to pluck up a little spirit. *^The 
young woman was on her best behavior, but the young man 
played truant. 

“Do you mean Mr. Thorpe never came?^^ 

“No, and he is not coming next Sunday, or the Sunday after. 
There, you may read his letter if you like. Oh, there is noth- 
ing that you may not see,” as Mrs. Chudleigh hesitated. 

“My dear Joan,— I am sorry to tell you that there is no 
possibility of our meeting for the next three or four weeks ; a 
very unexpected piece of business calls me to Dublin, and I 
shall be detained there for at least a fortnight. I am sending 
you the name of my hotel in case you care to write to me. I 
need not tell you that it will be a great pleasure to me to re- 
ceive any such letter. 

“ I must let you know, too, that your subscription to Mudie 
is paid, so you may send at once for any books you wish, and 
I have ordered the music for you. Pray tell me anything 
moro ^:at you need. I want you to understand that it is 
always a satisfaction to me to gratify your wishes. I have a 
good income now, and there is no necessity to deny yourself 
anything. Please treat my purse as your own from this 
moment. I remain, 

“Your affectionate husband, 

“Ivan Thorpe.” 

“Oh, Joan ! what a kind letter ! You will answer it, will 
you not?” 

“ I suppose I must, but it is very provoking. It makes me 
so nervous to write to Ivan. His sentences are stiff, but mine 
will be stiffer still. Of course I must thank him for the books 
and the music, for I know they have given him trouble, but I 
wish he had not mentioned his purse.” 

“ My dear, he intends you to assert your rights.” 

“Oh, but I have no rights,” she returned, hurriedly, and 
her manner was a little forced ; “and I will not help myself 
to any of Uis money. I have plenty of my own, and I shall 
tell him I want nothing, — nothing at all,— and I shall sign 
myself his dutiful wife.” 

“ I think that expression will hurt him ; you see he has put 
‘affectionate^ in his letter.” 

“ And I am to follow his lead like a little sheep ? No, thank 
you ; I must write my letter my own way, but it shall be a 
very civil letter, and perhaps I shall tell him last Sunday^s 
text. Oh, no, I forgot,” and here Joan blushed up to her eyes, 
and began to laugh, neither would she repeat the text for Mrs. 
Ohudleigh^s benefit, — behavior that sorely puzzled that lady. 


“ JOAN^REALLY--^JOANr 


285 


But in her own mind she was convinced that Joan missed 
the excitement of those Sundays ; they gave a sort of piquancy 
and zest to the remainder of the week. Most likely her 

g ower of tormenting her husband gave her pleasure, or per- 
aps, as Mrs. Chudleigh charitably suspected, she was disap- 
pointed at not carrying out her good resolutions. 

I shall have forgotten them by the time Ivan comes home,^^ 
she said, a little defiantly, “ and then you will have to give 
me another lecture. 

What was to be done with such a provoking creature ? Per- 
haps Mrs. Chudleigh^s way was the best, after all ; for she 
took Joanns face between her hands and looked into the girFs 
eyes until they drooped under their black lashes. 

^*That is right, my child ; don^t be ashamed of letting me 
see that you miss your husband. A noble creature such as he 
is ought to be missed. Let him read the welcome on your 
face ; he will need no words, Joan, — only just that look in 
your eyes to make his heart jump for joy. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

“ JOAN— REALLY— JOAN 

** Pale was the perfect face ; 

The bosom with long sighs labor’d ; and meek 
Seem’d the full lips, and mild the luminous eyes, 

And the voice trembled, and the hand. 

She said 

Brokenly, that she knew it, she had fail’d 
In sweet humility ; had fail’d in all.” 

Tennyson’s Princess, 

About three weeks after this, Launcelot was walking over 
the bridge one afternoon when he encountered Dr. Maxwell, 
aud they stopped simultaneously. 

“ Why, Maxwell, you are quite a stranger. When are you 
coming up to dine with us?^^ 

“ Oh, you must not ask me yet. I am terribly busy, — several 
bad cases. By the bye, I suppose you are on your way to see 
poor Thorpe?^' 

“ Poor Thorpe ! what on earth do you mean ?” 

“ What, have they not told you ?” 

“ I have heard absolutely nothing. 

“Then I am afraid you will be shocked to hear that poor 
Miss Thorpe met with a terrible accident last night. You 
know what a fog we had. Well, on crossing the road from 
the station she was knocked down by a van.^^ 

“ Good heavens 

“It is a bad affair; there are no bones actually broken, 


286 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


though she is cut about and contused, and we are not sure 
that there is not internal mischief. Happily, her face and 
the upper part of her body have escaped, but the worst part 
is that she was knocked against the curbstone, and the spine 
has received severe injury.’^ 

Launcelot was silent from sheer feeling, but at last he put 
the question, — 

‘‘ What is it you fear, — that she will die?^^ 

^‘No, that she will not walk again. We have just had 
Montague down, and this is his opinion, too.’^ And here Dr. 
Maxwell explained the case to Launcelot in technical lan- 
guage, giving him their reasons for fearing paralysis of the 
lower members. Montague will be down again in a few 
days, and by that time we shall know how far the patient is 
internally injured. 

Does Thorpe know all this V' 

Yes, and of course he is dreadfully distressed. He keeps 
saying that it would be better for her to die at once than lead 
this death in life ; but we have no choice in such matters, 
finished Dr. Maxwell, with a faint shrug. “I tell him that 
it is very unlikely Miss Thorpe will make an old woman, and, 
strange to say, that was the only speech that seemed to com- 
fort him.’^ 

I must go to him at once.^^ 

“ Very well, I will walk with you to the door. I never told 
you that fortunately I was passing just after the accident 
happened, and I helped to carry Miss Thorpe into the house. 

“And you are attending her?^^ 

“Yes; but of course I wished for a consultation. There 
were complications that made me fear for the result. Char- 
lotte came over last night, but we have a nurse now ; but I 
tell Thorpe she will never be able to do her work single- 
handed. The patient will need watching night and day for a 
time.^^ 


“ Is she conscious 

“Oh, yes; her head was untouched; but she has hardly 
spoken, and seems in great suffering. That points to internal 
mischief. She begged her brother to go down-stairs, and 
seemed anxious that he should be spared anything painful, 
and then_^e thanked Charlotte for coming to her, and that 
was all.”^ 

“ Did the consultation seem to disturb her?^^ 

“ No ; she was very patient under Montague^s examination. 
* I suppose it is very serious?^ she said to him. But he evaded 
her question. I do not know her well, but I should say she 
had a strong, self-reliant nature. Here we are at No. 8, and I 
can see Mr. Thorpe is in his study. Tell him I shall look in 
about five.” 

“ This is a bad business, Merton,” observed Launcelot when 
the housemaid opened the door. She was an old confidential 
servant, and Miss Thorpe was much attached to her. 


“ JOAN-^REALLY-^JOAN r 


287 


“ Yes, indeed, sir,— my poor mistress ! Who would have 
thought of such a thing happening? I am thankful that you 
have come to see master, for he was in a terrible way yester- 
day.^' And Merton, who looked as though she had not closed 
her eyes all night, — which indeed was the case, — knocked at 
the study-door. 

“ So you have heard ?" was Mr. Thorpe's greeting aa 
Launcelot silently wrung his hand. 

“Yes, I have heard. I met Maxwell on the bridge just 
now and he told me, and then I came at once. I wish you 
had sent for me last night, Thorpe." 

“My dear fellow, what could you hg^ve done? Women 
have much the best of it in one way : they can make them- 
selves useful in an emergency when a man has simply to stand 
aside." 

“Oh, I should have found something to do; at least you 
would not have been left lonely. I cannot bear to think of 
the night you must have passed ; but of course you had 
Maxwell ?" 

“Yes, and nothing could exceed his consideration; and 
then Miss Maxwell came and sat up with Merton. I call 
that Christian charity." 

“Yes, she is a good creature." 

“ I suppose Maxwell told you all. As soon as the telegraph 
office was open he telegraphed to Dr. Montague, and also foi 
a nurse ; she has just arrived, and Miss Maxwell has gone 
home." 

“I am glad you had a consultation. Montague is a first- 
rate man." 

“Ah, but his skill can avail nothing here. Think of my 
poor Rachel condemned to such a hideous doom,— partial 
paralysis, that is what they fear. Think what that means, — 
to be as helpless as an infant ! When they told me what they 
feared, I felt that I would rather have heard her death-war- 
rant. What has she done that such a punishment should 
come upon her?" 

Launcelot was silent, but certain words, spoken by a Divine 
• Teacher, came into his mind : “ Think ye that these Galileans 
were sinners above all the Galileans because they have suffered 
such things?" But he did not speak them. They were both 
God-fearing, religious men, but it would not have been easy 
to either of them to speak of what lay so deep in their nature. 
So he only put his hand on Mr. Thorpe's shoulder and said, 
quietly,— 

“ Things may be better than you think, Thorpe." But the 
other only shook his head despondently. 

“ Of course we all have our faults, and Rachel has hers. 
Things have not been quite comfortable between us for the 
last two months, but all the same she was my best friend. 
You at least, Chudleigh, know what we have been to each 
other " 


288 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


“ Yes, I know.^^ 

“And now to be told that, as far as this world is concerned, 
her work is over ; and after such an active life, too ! She has 
been the mainspring of that Society ever since it was formed, 
and what will they do without her? I have known trouble 
enough, God knows, of late, but when this happened last night 
I felt as though my cup of bitterness were brimming over/^ 

“ You must try to bear up, Thorpe. But as Launcelot 
spoke he felt that his friend was speaking the truth, and that 
his cup was literally overflowing with bitterness. There were 
lines on his face and fresh streaks of gray in his hair that had 
not been there two months ago ; and now, because he had not 
suffered enough, as he told himself, his faithful friend had 
been struck down at his side in the very fulness of life and 
energy, and the deep tide of his brotherly love and pity 
washed away all the remembrance of the injury she had 
wrought, and he could only think of her as the devoted sister 
whose care had saved his life when he was a sickly boy. 

“ Yes, I must bear up, for she will need me, poor Rachel 
he said, more in answer to his own thoughts than to Launce- 
lot’s little speech. “ She has no one but me. When I was a 
little fellow she gave up everything to devote herself to me. 
Night and day she never left me, and she was a young girl 
then ; so it is my turn now to wait upon her.” 

“I only trust that she may be spared suffering.” 

“ Oh, if they could tell us that ! but they do not know them- 
selves. Whatever she has to bear she will bear without com- 
plaint, but her life will be just a martyrdom.” 

“ Try and take a more hopeful view of things, Thorne.” 

“ I do t^, but I think anything like hope is crushed out of 
me. No ; Rachel and I must dree our weird to the bitter end.” 

Then it was that a thought came to Launcelot, one of those 
impulses that seem like an inner inspiration. “ Go to her,” 
it said ; “make a final appeal.” And his cheek flushed, and 
then he took out his watch and looked at it. 

“ I am afraid I must leave you, Thorpe, but I shall be here 
to-morrow. I wish you would give me something to do for 
you.” 

“ There is nothing, nothing ; but, all the same, it does me 
good to see you. I hoped you would have stayed with me.” 

“ I have some business, but I may possibly come back ; do 
not expect me, though. You will be sure to see me to-morrow 
Maxwell v^rill be here directly, — he told me to say so.” Then 
Launcelot walked away in the direction of the station, and 
Mr. Thorpe went back to his study. 

Launcelot took the train to South Kensington, and then 
jumping into a hansom had himself driven to Truro Square. 
He found Joan alone in the drawing-room. Mrs. Medhurst 
had a cold that confined her to her own room. 

She was evidently surprised to see Launcelot, and her color 
rose at the sight of him. 


“ JOAN^REALLY-^JOAN r 


28d 


“ You are the last person I expected to see, Mr. Cliudleigh 
she said, trying to appear at her ease. ‘‘When I heard 
wheels I made up my mind that it was Mrs. Chudleigh or 
Pauline. 

“And of course you are disappointed,’^ with an effort to 
throw off his nervousness. 

“ Oh, no. I am very pleased to see you. It is so long since 
we met, and you will be able to tell me all the news. I am 
longing to hear how Bee gets on with the Sylvesters.” 

“very well, I believe. She rides a good deal ; but, Mrs. 
Thorpe, I have come upon rather a serious errand. Do you 
know your sister-in-law has met with a sad accident ?” 

“Rachel?” 

“Yes. I only heard of it two hours ago, and I went at 
once to Priory Road. Your poor husband is in great trouble,” 
and then he gave her an account of his interview with Dr. 
Maxwell and his subsequent visit to Priory Road. 

Joan became very pale as she listened to him ; her lips 
twitched, and the tears came into her eyes. 

“ Oh, how dreadful! I never heard anything so shocking. 
Poor Rachel! and she will never walk again. And she suffers 
too, you say ?” 

“Yes, they fear she is internally hurt.” 

“ Poor creature ! Oh. I am more sorry for her than I can 
say ; and Ivan takes it badly?” 

“Very badly. It has been such a shock to him, you see. 
He looks wretched. I suppose he did not sleep last night, 
and they are all so busy with her that they cannot attend to 
his comfort. He lookea absolutely ill, poor fellow! there was 
quite a shrunken look about him.” 

Launcelot was certainly not mincing matters, for he was 
determined to put things in their strongest light before Joan, 
but he was hardly prepared for the result of his words. 

“ Oh!” she said, oursting into tears, “ do you think I may 
go to him? Would he be very angry if he saw me?” 

“Angry, my dear Mrs. Thorpe, — why? I have come here 
with the express purpose of asking you to come back with 
me.” 

“Do you mean that Ivan has sent for me ?” 

“No, I cannot say that ;” but he was sorry to see how the 
eager light died out of her eyes at his words. “Your name 
was not mentioned between us ; but as he talked to me of his 
trouble the thought came into my mind that I would come 
and tell you how things were.” 

“You are very good, — very kind to have taken all this 
trouble; but, Ivan,-~oh, Mr. Chudleigh, I am afraid if he 
should be angry !” 

“ He will not be angry.” 

“ How do you know ? I am not forgiven yet. I think it is 
rather a bold thing for me to do.” 

“ What, to go to your husband when he is in trouble?” 

V t 26 


290 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


“Yes, if he is still offended with me; besides, he will be 
thinking of her now, and he will not want me.*' 

“ Mrs. Thorpe, if I were you I should go." 

“Why?" 

“ Because it is your duty to be with your husband, and be- 
cause he is eating out his noble heart with sorrow and loneli- 
ness. Never mind whether he is angry or not. Just listen to 
your woman's heart that is prompting you to go to him." 

“ I want to go," she whispered. “ I do not feel I can keep 
away." 

“ Will you put on your bonnet then? and I will take you. 
I have kept my hansom, so we shall be at the station in a few 
minutes. Do not delay. Please go and get ready." And as 
she stood irresolutely by her chair he took her hand and led 
her to the door. “ Do not keep me waiting," he said, smiling 
at her, and she went up-stairs as obediently as a child. 

“ God bless her ! she has a good heart, and it belongs to her 
husband," thought Launcelot, as he went back into the room. 
And as he paced up and down he blessed her again in his in- 
most soul that, in spite of all the sorrow she had caused him, 
she had yet left her image pure and unstained in his mind. 
“I always said she was good, in spite of all," he said, trium- 
phantly, as though this thought were his sole comfort. 

Joan hardly spoke during their journey, but sat quiet and 
subdued in her corner of the railway carriage. Now and then 
the wide, beautiful eyes had a scared look in them, but she did 
not again say she was afraid, only as they walked down Priory 
Road in the November dusk she suddenly touched Launcelot's 
arm. 

“Are you coming in with me?" 

“Well, no ; that would hardly do." 

“ I suppose not. Do you mind walking up and down for a 
few minutes ? I know it is childish of me to ask you, but it 
will give me more courage if I feel you are just outside." 

“ Very well. I will be on guard for the next quarter of an 
hour, — not longer, remember." 

“No, a quarter of an hour will satisfy me. If he send me 
away, I shall join you before that." 

“ He will not send you away." 

“ Don't be too sure of that. There, I have actually forgotten 
my gloves — how absurd ! Did you notice the omission, Mr. 
Chudleigh?" But Launcelot assured her gravely that he had 
noticed nothing, and then he set open the high iron gate and 
rang the bell for her. He heard the servant — it was not Mer- 
ton— ask Joan's name, but he did not catch her answer. 

Joan did not give her name. “ Your master knows me," she 
said, quickly, and she walked towards the study. A hesitating 
knock was followed by a somewhat drowsy “Come in," ana 
without waiting for her courage to ooze out Joan opened the 
door. 

Mr. Thorpe was sitting by the fire ; perhaps he had been 


JOAN-^REALLY—JOANr^ 


291 


asleep, for his eyes looked heavy and dazed, and he made no 
attempt to rise from his chair when he saw Joan. The pale 
haggardness of his face filled her with dismay. Launcelot was 
right ; he certainly looked ill. “ Always the same dream, she 
heard him mutter ; “she comes in at that door and looks at me.^^ 

“It is really Joan, — it is no dream, — wake up, Ivan,^^ she 
said, coming closer to him, but not venturing to touch him ; 
then he gave a great start. 

“Joan — really— Joan ! and here !” 

“ YesJ^ she said, taking courage, for he had not repulsed 
her, and there was a strange eagerness in his voice that thrilled 
her and drew her closer. “ Yes, do not be angry with me, Ivan, 
and send me away and then she knelt down beside him, 
and he could see the marks of recent tears upon her face, and 
the wistfulness in her great gray eyes, and if he did not take 
her to his heart at that moment it was because he wanted her 
to speak and tell him how this miracle had been effected, that 
she had come to him of her own accord. 

“ Oh,^^ she went on, but he could hear how her voice trem- 
bled, “ when Mr. Chudleigh came and told me what had hap- 
pened I felt as though I could not stop away any longer, as 
though I must brave everything to let you know how sorry I 
am for her and you too. Poor Rachel! to think of what she 
is suffering ! but I will be so good, so good, if you will only 
let me stay and nurse her.^^ 

“You will stay here with her and me? say that again, ^ 
Joan.^^ 

“Why, how could she go, poor soul! when she will nevei 
walk again, and will have to be tended like a baby. She will 
want a sister then to wait upon her. Oh, Ivan ! do you think 
she will forget all that has passed 

“ I think — I think— But what Mr. Thorpe thought was 
never rendered in words, for his voice died away ; but as Joan 
looked at him everything was made plain to her from that 
moment, and she not only knew that she was forgiven, but 
that he had always loved her, and as she felt his arms round 
her she lifted up her face to his, and the husband and wife 
kissed each other. 

There were broken words, sacred confidences never to be 
forgotten by either speaker during the agitated minutes that 
followed the reconciliation. Of the two the man was the 
most moved ; his nature was stirred to its very depths. Joan 
wept and trembled as she realized for the first time how she 
had trifled with this generous heart, how she had goaded and 
wounded it without compunction and pity, for the veil was 
withdrawn now from her eyes, and she knew that what she 
had taken for coldness was the proud reticence of a great love. 

“If I had only known that you really cared for me !^^ she 
said more than once. 

“ Cared for you, oh, my darling ! if you knew how I wanted 
you, and what those Sundays were to me ! Often and often I 


292 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


would have taken you in my arms and begged you to come 
back, but your coldness stopped me ; one kind word would 
have opened my lips.^^ 

“ Ob, Ivan ! and I only teased you. I longed to be friends 
all the time, but it was my horrid pride. I said to myself 
that I had been repulsed once, and that I would never give 
you a chance of repelling me again. 

“ Repulsed, Joan V' 

“Yes, that night at the Witchens, when you would not look 
at me, though I pleaded with you. If you had listened to me 
I should have been kneeling beside you then as I am kneeling 
now.^^ 

“Are you kneeling, my darling? and I never knew it. 
How tired you must be ! and yet your dear face looks so 
fresh and beautiful. Let me give you this chair. But Joan 
resisted this ; she was not tired a bit, and she liked her posi- 
tion ; and as she put her head down on his shoulder and 
nestled to him, Mr. Thorpe was satisfied to let things remain 
as they were. Joan was accepting her happiness with a 
child's simplicity ; everything had come right, and she and 
Ivan would never misunderstand each other again, only she 
said to him once, half playfully and half seriously, — 

“You are saying all these pretty things to me, and I am, 
oh ! so proud to hear them ; but you know I am still Joan, 
and shall disappoint you again and again." 

“ Oh, I am not afraid of that," he answered, in an ofF-hand 
way. “ I dare say you will behave very badly sometimes, 
and give me plenty of trouble, but I shall be proof against 
annoyance now when you tease me. I shall remind you of 
your own words." 

“ What words ?" she whispered, pressing closer to him. 

“ That you love me, and that you have never cared for any 
other man ; you will not be able to contradict that — " 

“ And of course it is a wonderful thing that I should care 
for my own husband," she returned, with a charming pout, 
“ especially after all he has done for me. Ivan, I don't mean 
ever to be afraid of you again, but how could I help it when 
you kept me at such a distance? We have both been very 
foolish people, but we know better now." 

“ I only nope I shall not spoil you, Joan." 

“ Try it," she returned, with a beaming look at him ; “ you 
will see how spoiling agrees with me. When people are proud 
of me and make much of me, I always feel as blissful as a cat 
warming herself before a fire in a placid, contented, purring 
state. You must never look sternly at me again." 

“Not when you wear that smile for me. certainly. Joan, 
do you know, has any one told you that you have grown 
more beautiful than ever?" 

“ Oh, to hear his blarney !" she said, blushing nevertheless 
with pleasure. “Did you ever pay me compliments before, 
Ivan?" But if he talked nonsense for the first time in his 


» JOAN—REALLY^JOANr 293 

life, it might be forgiven him when he was dizzy with this 
unexpected happiness. 

But they both looked a little foolish when the maid came 
in and told them that dinner was waiting; as it was, the 
meal was unconscionably late, but Jane had almost forgotten 
her master. 

‘‘I hope you have laid for Mrs. Thorpe, he observed ner- 
vously, conscious that Janets eyes were resting on Joanns face 
with undisguised curiosity ; and then as she withdrew, too 
much astonished to answer, he helped Joan to remove her 
bonnet and mantle, and then took her into the dining-room. 

It was rather an awkward meal, for neither of them liked 
to speak much while Jane remained in the room ; but once 
when Ivan looked up and saw his wife^s face opposite to him 
in the old place, as she sat with downcast eyes playing with 
the food in her plate, a sort of mist rose to his eyes, and there 
was a choking sensation in his throat as he thought of the old 
desolate days. 

As soon as they were left alone, Joan glanced at the clock 
on the mantelpiece. 

Ivan, it is getting late ; I must go soon.^^ 

‘^What do you mean?^^ he said, almost dropping his glass 
and staring at her. “ If you think that I shall ever let you 
out of my sight again you are mistaken, Joan.^^ 

“ Oh, but I must go,^^ she returned, laughing. “ Just listen, 
Ivan,^^ and as he came round to her she took his hand in both 
of hers; “I could not treat Mrs. Medhurst so badly. You 
know I only left word that I was going out with Mr. Chud- 
leigh, and what would she think if I never came back at 
all?'^ 

“ Nonsense ! I will send her a message. You shall not leave 
me, Joan.’^ 

Oh ! now we have the old masterful Ivan ; but indeed you 
must give me my way in this. I do not like to be shabby, 
and I am fond of Mrs. Medhurst. She was far too nice for a 
keeper. 

“Joan, please don^t be provoking.^^ 

“Provoking, is it? Oh, the tyranny of these husbands! 
But, Ivan, you must hear reason ; take me back to Truro 
Square ; the air will do you good, and you look frightfully pale. 
Then you will be able to sleep, and when you wake in the 
morning you will remember that you have to fetch me.^^ 

“ Oh, I am to fetch you, am 

“Yes; but not too early, please. I have all my things to 
pack. If you are. good you may come to luncheon, and this 
young woman will be ready for you.^^ 

“I wonder you have the heart to leave me.^’ Then Joan 
looked very softly at him. 

“ It is only for a few hours, and I do not want to be selfish. 
Ivan, will you promise me one thing? — dc not tell Rachel that 
T have been here.^^ 


26 * 


£94 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


“I should not have told her,^^ he returned, rather sadly; 

there must be nothing to agitate her just yet.” 

“ No ; and I will tell her myself. Oh, I mean to be so good 
to her, and to you too. I think I am too happy ever to be 
naughty again.” And then as Joan took her nusband^s arm 
and walked with him in the dim starlight, a sense of peace 
and right-doing seemed to steal over her, and she knew the 
contrary currents of her nature would be checked and con- 
trolled by the calm force of her husband^s will, — that reason- 
able man^s will which is removed at once from weakness and 
tyranny. 

“No, I shall never misunderstand Ivan again,” were tne 
last waking thoughts that night before she sank into a happy 
dream. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

RACHEL’S NEMESTS 

“ Thou hast done well, perhaps, 

To show how closely wound 
Dark threads of sin and self 
With our best deeds are found ; 

How great and noble hearts, 

Stirring for lofty aims. 

Have still some earthly and 
A meaner spirit claims.*’ 

Adelaide Anne Pbocter. 

So it was that Ivan Thorpe won his wife^s heart and kept it, 
and that in his trouble Joan proved his truest comforter. 

When Launcelot called the next day, he looked at his friend 
somewhat keenly. 

“ It is all right, then ? I am so glad, Thorpe.” 

“Yes, I am going to fetch her now ; she could not stay last 
night because they were expecting her back.” 

“Don’t let me keep you. I only want to know how Miss 
Thorpe is this morning.” 

“ We hope the pain is lessening. She certainly slept a little. 
I had a long talk with Maxwell just now, and he seemed 
rather more hopeful ; but we are to keep her perfectly quiet 
for the next week or two : she must not even know that Joan 
is in the house.” 

“ You will have to be very careful, then.” 

“ Oh, yes, we must be careful. Happily, the house is old, and 
the walls are thicker than the modern houses, and the stairs 
are carpeted.” 

“Still, Miss Thorpe has sharp eyes, and that very cheerful 
expression may tell tales.” Then Mr. Thorpe laughed. 

“ Of course I know what you mean, but I feel grave enough 
when I am in her room. What a mystery life is, Chudleigh 1 


RACHEL'S NEMESIS. 


295 


One is struck down and another uplifted at the same moment. 
Last evening, as I sat alone in my study, I thought things 
were at their worst, and then I looked up, and there was Joanns 
face.^^ 

am glad you think I did not take a liberty in going to 

her.^’ 

“ My dear fellow, a liberty? What do I not owe to you?— 
everything, everything 

“ Absolutely nothing.^^ 

“Oh, no ; I am not weighed down with a sense of my in- 
debtedness, — not at all. You have been like a brother to me, 
and have treated Joan with the chivalry and good faith of a 
gentleman. Why, it is to you I owe my life and my wife^s 
return, and yet I am not to speak of my gratitude !” 

“No, indeed; there must be no such word between us, 
Thorpe. 

“ Oh, but there must be, for Joan and for myself too. We 
will not incur such benefits without owning ourselves grateful. 
If I am happy enough to possess such a friend, I may surely 
speak out my mind to him.” 

“If it will do you good, Thorpe, but I would rather take 
everything for granted ; besides, I know you would have done 
the same for me.” 

“ I don^t know that. I am not Launcelot Chudleigh.” 

“All the better for you, old fellow,” remarked Launce, 
quaintly. And then he took up his hat and walked with his 
friend to the station. 

“ So my young woman is ready for me,” were Mr. Thorpe^s 
first words as Joan came into the room with a demure air, but 
looking so lovely. 

“Oh, yes, and you are ten minutes late. I have been watch- 
ing for you for the last hour, and was just beginning to get 
anxious for fear Rachel was not so well.” 

“We think she is a trifle better, dear, but Chudleigh came 
in, and that detained me. Are we to have luncheon here ? 
But you must come away directly afterwards. I shall not be 
satisfied till I see you sitting opposite to me in the study. Why 
are you laughing, Joan?” 

“Because — because you are so ridiculous,” she returned, 
with a loving little squeeze of his hand to make up for her 
rude speech, for Joan could not long remain on her best be- 
havior, and it was too delicious to see Ivan showing all the 
impatience of a love-sick boy. “ But I will not tease you, Ivan, 
I will be good ; you shall have your luncheon, and I will wait 
upon you like a dutiful wife.” 

“ Indeed, no ; I mean to wait on my own sweetheart.” 

“ Oh ! to think of him courting me in that way ! Ivan, I 
am sorry I said you looked old, — ^that I told Mr. Chudleigh so. 
I think you have grown younger, — that I never knew you so 
young before.” But though Mr. Thorpe smiled at this, he 
s?w very well that Joan was a little shy of him this morning, 


290 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


and that in spite of her bright speeches the tears lay very neai 
the surface. Even as she jested with him, speaking of her- 
self as his young woman and making little jokes on the sub- 
ject, her changing color and quick, restless movements spoke 
volumes to the eyes that had learned now to read her so truly. 

But as they stood together on the steps of the house in 
Priory Road, Joan slipped her hand into her husband’s. 

“ Let us cross it together, Ivan,” she whispered, and now he 
could see her eyes were wet. “ Do you remember old Biddy’s 
saying, ‘Hand in hand across the threshold for good luck, 
acushla’ ?” 

Mr. Thorpe was in no mood to laugh at Joan’s little super- 
stition ; he only held her hand very tightly, as though he 
understood her meaning. 

But when they had entered the study and he had made her 
remove her bonnet, he would have taken her in his arms with 
words of the sweetest welcome, but she put her hands on his 
shoulder and bade him wait a moment. 

“ Don’t kiss me yet, Ivan ; I want to say something to you.” 

“ My darling, it was all said yesterday, and to-day it is my 
turn, and I will not hear one word that relates to the past ; 
this is our new life that we are beginning together.” 

“Yes, our new life,” she echoed, “but I want you to re- 
member all I said to you yesterday. I will try to be good ; I 
will try to be all that a wife ought to be ; but I am only Joan, 
I cannot alter my nature.” 

“ I do not wish it altered,” he returned, looking into her 
sad, beautiful eyes. “ It was Joan whom I loved all those 
weary years ago, though she never knew what was in my 
heart for her. It was Joan for whom I pined and sickened in 
my loneliness, and whom I loved still even when I was most 
angry with her, and it is the same Joan whom I am holding 
in my arms now.” And then she no longer refused to yield 
herself to his caresses. 

And so the new life began for them both ; but in spite of 
their happiness, a happiness that increased and deepened 
every day, there was much to try them. 

Up-stairs Joan would pass her sister-in-law’s room with 
noiseless footstep and bated breath ; now and then she would 
pause on the threshold as the faint tones of Rachel’s voice 
met her ears, then the tears would come into her eyes and she 
would hurry on. 

Ivan, too, had need of vigilance and circumspection during 
the hours he spent with his sister, but in spite of all his efforts 
he could not entirely hide that some change had passed over 
him ; a certain brightness of eye and alertness of movement 
betrayed him. 

Rachel would lie and look at him rather wistfully |once she 
said to him, with a touch of pathos in her voice, “How well 
you look, Ivan ! One would think you have heard some good 
news.” 


RACHEL^ S NEMESIS, 


297 


“Well, so I have,''li 
“ Maxwell tells me he is 
and that if you go on as 
improvement in a few days.^^ 

“ The pain is far less now,^^ she returned, with a short sigh ; 
“I suppose I ought to be thankful for that. You have sent 
off the letters, Ivan ; have you had any answer 

“Yes ; Miss Halliwell will undertake the work. I will show 
you her letter to-morrow. It is a thoroughly sensible, busi- 
ness-like letter, and she speaks so kindly of you. I think she 
will be the right person in the right place. That was a happy 
thought of yours. But there was no answering brightness 
on BachePs pale face, only a slight twitching of the thin lips 
answered him. 

A fortnight had passed since BachePs accident, but she had 
never since spoken to her brother on the subject of her help- 
lessness. She had questioned Dr. Maxwell, and had learned 
from him all that it was necessary for her to know, — that they 
hoped that in a little while she would cease to suffer, but she 
must never expect to lead an active life again. 

“And I am only forty-five, — hardly an old woman. Dr. 
Maxwell. But there, what is the use of complaining? we 
must take what Providence orders. 

“ True ; and things might be much worse,^^ he returned, 
with a man^s philosophy. “You must make up your mind 
to be an invalid ; but I need not tell you. Miss Thorpe, that 
even an invalid has pleasures. Now, my sister Brenda, for 
example, is one of the happiest women I know.^^ But Miss 
Thorpe remained silent. Complaint would do her no good, 
and she had already determined, with the force of her strong 
will, that^ whatever she suffered, no weak repinings should 
pass her lips, — that she would not add to Ivan^s trouble by let- 
ting him know what she suffered. 

So, with a stern heroism that belonged to her nature, she 
set herself to face the future. The work was taken from her, 
but at least she could see that her mantle had fallen on a 
worthy successor, and as soon as possible she had sent for her 
brother, and had begged him to write letters from her dicta- 
tion, and one of these was to Miss Halliwell. 

“Yes, it is a great relief to my mind to know that she has 
taken iV^ she went on, when her brother had ceased speaking. 
“ I should have been grieved if the Society had suffered just 
as it is in such good working order ; but Miss Halliwell is 
exactly the person to carry on the work. She is strong, has 
no nerves ; and then her time is her own. She lives with a 
married sister who has no children, and has no duties to 
fetter her.^^ 

“ Yes, and she will be a godsend to you ; but, all the same, 
no one can ever properly take your place, Bachel. I have 
never said a word to you about your trouble—” but she put 
up her hand to stop him 


e replied, with suspicious readiness, 
perfectly satisfied with your progress, 
you are doing we shall see a decided 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


“No, and I have thanked you for it. We do not need 
words, you and I. If I said anything, it would be to regret 
that I am to be an encumbrance to you all my life ; but I will 
not hurt you by saying even that.^^ 

“That is the truest kindness you have yet shown me.“ 
Then a softened look came to her eyes. 

“No, I will not wrong your generosity by saying any such 
thing. I know what we are to each other, and that there is 
no grudging thought in your mind.^^ Then he kissed her 
forehead, almost too much moved to speak, and as he did so 
he noticed how gray her hair was growing. 

“I suppose you see Joan sometimes,^’ she continued, pres- 
ently, as though following out some train of thought. Ivan 
started, and had some difficulty in controlling the muscles of 
his face as he answered ; for was not Joan at that moment 
tidying his papers and singing under her breath at her work 
for fear Rachel should hear her ? 

“Oh, yes; I see her sometimes,” he returned, rather awk- 
wardly. “You know I told you so.” 

“ And she is well?” 

“Oh, yes; but she is very grieved at what has happened. 
She has sent her love to you again and again, only 1 have 
never delivered her message. Now, there is nurse coming 
back, and I must go.” And he rose, thankful for the inter- 
ruption ; for what if she should question him too closely about 
Joan ? 

But Rachel lay for a long time without speaking after he 
had left her. Joan, — why was Joan always in her mind now, 
night and day? Why could she never get rid of her image 
for a single hour in spite of all her efforts ? 

Always her face was before her, now in one mood and now 
in another ; now it would wear a mocking expression, or the 
next moment the gray eyes would be brilliant and angry with 
excitement. “It is only one of her Irish rages ; it is best to 
leave her alone,” she would have said at such a time. But 
even as the recollection crossed her, the expression would 
seem to change to one of sweetest entreaty. “We are sisters ; 
why can we not love each other ?” it seemed to say. “ If you 
love Ivan, why are you so hard to me? You are cruel, 
Rachel,” and so on in her waking and dreaming moments. 

Yes, sheliad been cruel to Joan ; and this was her punish- 
ment, though no such confession crossed her lips. She knew 
that this was her punishment, and in her helplessness and 
desolation she told herself that it was the hand of her God 
that lay so heavy upon her. 

“ What has she done that such a punishment has come upon 
her?” had been Ivan^s words, speaking in the bitterness of 
his heart. But Rachel could have told him that her sin had 
been great. Had she not made an idol of her brother ? had 
she cared for aught in life but for him and for her work ? 
What would it avail to her that she had fed the hungry and 


RACHEL'S NEMESIS, 


299 


clothed the naked, when her cruelty, her coldness and hard- 
ness, had driven her sister-in-law away from her home,— when 
her narrow jealousy, her harsh judgment, had first alienated 
Ivan from his wife, and had led to their separation ? 

True, Joan had sinned grievously ; but had she no share in 
that sin when she suffered the girl to wander about the world 
unguarded except by her own innocence ? What terrible re- 
sponsibility she had incurred by keeping this secret from Ivan I 
She had sat beside him evening after evening seeing his unhap- 
piness, and yet had held on her pitiless way ! She had done 
it for his good ; but who had made her the arbiter of his 
fate ? 

And now — so she told herself— her Nemesis had overtaken 
her. In the full vigor and strength of her middle age an un- 
erring blow had struck her down and taken her work from 
her ; she was no longer worthy to do it, — God would not ac- 
cept such sacrifice. The life that had looked so pure and 
self-denying to others was full of hideous uncleanness to the 
Divine eyes of her Judge ! 

“ Blessed are the merciful but had she ever shown mercy ? 
“Blessed are the peacemakers and she had sown bitterest 
dissension. “And, to dare to think myself a good woman 
thought Bachel, writhing under the fierce mysterious pain 
caused by those strokes of the two-edged sword that men call 
conscience, — “to believe that the world would be better as 
long as I lived in it, who dared to do Christ’s work without 
the Christ-like spirit that should go with it !” 

And then she thought of the ragged little ones for whom 
she had worked, and tears of womanly anguish coursed down 
her cheeks. 

“No, I am not worthy; I own my sin,” she murmured, 
clasping her hands in the darkness, “ but, good Lord, the sin 
is mine : let not these little ones suffer through my fault. Put 
it into some other woman’s head to take up the dropped work, 
and I will be content to suffer.” And perhaps the pure un- 
selfishness of this prayer brought the desired answer when 
Miss Halliwell offered herself for the work. 

After all, Bachel Thorpe was a good woman. If she had 
great faults, she had great virtues too ; her patience and silent 
fortitude under suffering, her unwillingness to give unneces- 
sary trouble, drew many a word of praise from her doctoi 
and nurse. 

“ You are the best patient I ever had,” Dr. Maxwell said to 
her once. “You make no objection to anything I prescribe ; 
and I know many people who would have their grumble at 
the doctor if I ordered them that.” 

“ There seems nothing left but obedience,” she answered, 
with a smile. “ Besides, I should only think it ungrateful to 
grumble, when you take such trouble about me.” 

“I only wish I could do more for you,” he returned with 
real feeling as he took his leave. Dr. Maxwell was beginning 


300 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


to feel great interest in his patient; he told his sisters that 
Miss Thorpe was a fine creature. 

But not all lier doctor^s skill or kindness or her nurse^s at 
tention could lighten the tedium of those dreary Novembei 
days, or lift that bitter weight from RachePs heart ; and as she 
looked out on the leafiess trees and gray skies, she told herself 
that the winter of her life had come. 

Ivan was very good to her, very gentle and attentive ; bul 
the knowledge of his own happiness, and Joanns presence ir 
the house, compelled him to make his visits to the sick-roort 
somewhat brief, he was so afraid of betraying himself. 

Once they both heard Joan pass the door, — she had forgo tter 
for the moment, and had run up in her old fashion. Ivar 
even fancied she was humming a tune. 

“ Whose footstep is that asked Rachel, suddenly. Mer 
ton never runs up-stairs in that way.^^ 

“I will see,^^ ne said, going to the door; for no answei 
seemed possible to him under the circumstances, and then 
was Joan peeping at him from the opposite room. She lookec 
rather aghast as he made a sign to her to close the door. 

“ I see no one,^^ she heard him say after this little manoeuvn 
had taken place. “ I think Merton and nurse are down-stairs 
but I will give them a hint to go up and down more quietly.^ 
But Rachel begged him to do nothing of the kind, — the hous( 
was silent enough, and she almost longed for some sound t( 
break the monotony ; but, true to her rule not to complain 
she did not mention her feelings on this point. 

Joan pleaded vainly with her husband to be allowed to entej 
the sick-room, but he always evaded her request. 

“You must wait a few days longer,^’ he would say, “unti 
Maxwell is quite sure there will be no risk ; but I dread anj 
agitation for Rachel in her present weak state.” And Joar 
reluctantly submitted. 

But she had no idea that Ivan was thinking more of hei 
than of the poor invalid ; that his passionate fondness coulc 
not brook the thought of a cloud on that bright face. “Sh< 
is like a child in her happiness. I cannot endure the idea of 
her being imprisoned in that sick-room,” he would say t( 
himself. “ Rachel will be hard and cold to her, and then Joar 
will droop. Oh, no ; I must keep her to myself a little longer 
I hope I am not selfish, but it is for Joanns sake.” 

Joan had no idea that Ivan was keeping them apart for an;^ 
such reasonr If she had guessed the true state of the cas( 
she would have thrown her arms round her husband^s necl 
and thanked him for his tender consideration for her, anc 
then she would have run up-stairs and made her peace witl 
Rachel. With all her faults, Joan was no coward, and wouk 
not have shrunk from doing her duty to her sister-in-law. 

After all, it was Joanns knight-errant Launcelot who cut th< 
Gordian knot of difficulty in his impulsive, practical way. 

One afternoon, when Ivan came up to his sister^s room, sh< 


RACHEL’S NEMESIS. 


801 


asked him if Mr. Chudleigh were still in the house. *‘I 
heard him speaking to you in the hall when nurse left my 
door open just now,’^ she said, quietly, “and I should like 
to see him, if you think he would not mind the trouble of 
coming up.^^ 

“ My dear Rachel, Chudleigh never thinks anything a 
trouble. He calls constantly at the door to ask after you, 
and Mrs. Chudleigh or Miss Pauline is here two or three times 
a week.^^ But here Mr. Thorpe bit his lip, as though he had 
said too much. It was quite true that the ladies from the 
Witchens asked after his sister, but it was nevertheless the 
fact that their visits were to Joan. 

Mrs. Chudleigh had cried a little when she had taken Joan 
in her arms during her first visit. The girl had come into the 
room smiling and holding out her hands, and then, at the 
sight of her friend^s face, she had clung to her without 
speaking. 

“ My dear, I need not ask if you are happy, she said, fond- 
ling her. “ I am so glad, so very glad, Joan.^^ 

“Yes, and you are my first visitor, returned Joan, drying 
her eyes and looking up with her beaming smile ; “ and you 
must stop and have tea with me, and then you will see Ivan. 
Oh, I don^t think you will know him, he is so changed. He 
has grown quite young and handsome, I tell him. I never 
heard him laugh before, and I have made him laugh twice 
already. 

“ You have given him back his youth, Joan.” 

“ So he says. Oh, he is always making such pretty speeches 
to me. Fancy Ivan making pretty speeches ! He says he has 
to make up for lost time, because he had been such an unsat- 
isfactory lover. He had no idea that girls wanted pretty 
speeches made to them. He thought if a man wanted to 
marry a woman that that was a compliment to last her life ; 
but he has found out his mistake now,” with a merry nod of 
her head. 

“Joan is a fortunate girl; I can see her husband adores 
her,” were Mrs. Chudleigh^s words to Pauline when she re- 
turned home that day. “ It was not what he said to her, for 
he is a very quiet man, but the way he looked at her when 
she was spealdng or if she moved. He was always on the 
alert to open the door or wait upon her. Oh, women notice 
these little things. Depend upon it, he cannot bear her out 
of his sight. Joan tells me that though he pretends to grum- 
ble if she disturbs him at his work, he is never easy unless 
she brings her work and sits with him ; and he is teaching 
her book-keeping and helping her with accounts, so that she 
may be able to manage her housekeeping. She has much to 
learn, but he is so patient over her mistakes that she will soon 
make a clever housekeeper.” 

“ You are right, mother ; I think she is ver^^ fortunate,” 
returned Pauline, with a sigh, which was quickly checked, 

26 


502 


ONLY THE GOVERNES!S. 


however, as she took up her work, — a cushion that she was 
embroidering for Brenda. If Pauline in her sturdy honesty 
thought that Joan had hardly merited all this wealth of love, 
she was none the less thankful that her friend’s troubles were 
over. She did not grudge Joan her happiness, even though 
she dropped that sigh. 

“ Some people have so much, and others so little,” she said. 
‘‘ There is Bee, now.” Then Mrs. Chudleigh looked grave at 
the mention of her daughter’s name ; for all the world knew 
that Oscar Hamblyn was to marry his cousin the following 
week. For some reason, matters had been hurried on, and 
Bee was still away, and would remain with the Sylvesters 
until the New Year. 

** Yes, poor darling !” she returned, echoing Pauline’s sigh ; 
for of all her children Bee was just then the one nearest her 
heart. She regarded her as the stricken deer that had gone 
apart to hide its wounds, and she only spoke of her in a tone 
of subdued tenderness. 

It may be doubted whether the Sylvesters saw any of this 
stricken-deer mood. In spite of her trouble Bee danced and 
hunted, and even took a part in the private theatricals ; and 
if she came down in the morning with pale cheeks and tired 
eyes, no sensible person would have accused the successful 
young beauty of shedding tears instead of sleeping. 

“ Every one admires your daughter Beatrix,” wrote Cousin 
Emmeline ; “ she eclipses all our country girls. Captain Elliott 
seems seriously smitten, and follows her about like a shadow ; 
though I am obliged to confess that the girl gives him little 
encouragement. He is only the second son, but he will inherit 
his mother’s fortune, so the title does not matter. And he is 
nice-looking, and is what Balph calls a downright good fellow.” 

*‘Oh, my dear, Bee will never fancy any other man,” ob- 
served Mrs. Chudleigh, plaintively, as she folded up the letter. 
“If she had only seen Captain Elliott first ! Why, they are 
the Elliotts of Warburton Abbey, — a very old family. But no, 
her life is blighted !” But to this Launcelot made a very 
strange reply : 

“ I don’t know about that, Madella. If Captain Elliott is a 
wise man, he will just bide his time.” 


WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE HERV 


30S 


CHAPTEE XXXVII. 

WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE HER 

“ Oh, might we all our lineage prove, 

Give and forgive, do good, and love. 

By soft endearments in kind strife 

Light’ning the load of daily life V'—Christian Yem . 

Rachel^s gray eyes softened in their old way at the sight 
of her favorite. 

Launcelot was one of those men who seemed to understand 
by instinct how to behave in a sick-room ; and yet he was per- 
fectly unused to illness. He had been abroad at the time of 
Lilyas death, and his father's sudden seizure had allowed no 
protracted nursing. All the rest of the Chudleighs had been 
remarkably healthy ; nevertheless, no trained nurse walked 
into the room with a firmer, lighter tread ; and there was 
something soothing in the quiet, unhesitating manner in 
which he sat down and took the invalid's hand, holding it 
for a minute or two before he relinquished it. 

“ How good of you to send for me. Miss Thorpe !" 

“How good of you to come!" she returned, smiling. “I 
thought if I had to pass my life here," looking round the 
comfortable room as she spoke, “that it would be hard if I 
could not see my friends ; and you are my very special and 
particular friend, are you not?" with an attempt at playful- 
ness ; but her lip trembled a little as she saw how much he 
was affected by her words. 

“ I hope so. I have done nothing to forfeit my privileges. 
I wonder if Thorpe has told you how often I have been to in- 
quire after you ? I may truly say you have not been out of 
my mind for a single hour." 

“ Oh, we know who has the kindest heart in the world ; that 
is what I call friendship." And then she drew her hand away 
and lay quiet for a few minutes, and Launcelot did not disturb 
her. But as he sat beside her couch in the wintry twilight, as 
the firelight played upon her pale face, he noticed, as Ivan had, 
how gray her hair was growing. “This will make an old 
woman of her," he thought, regretfully ; and yet at the same 
time it struck him that she had never looked nicer. It was a 
fine face, and the broad, benevolent forehead and the kind 
expression of the eyes neutralized the thin, severe lips. 

“ I hope you are thinking how comfortable I look,'' she con 
tinned, rousing herself with an effort. “Is not this invalid 
couch a grand invention ? It saves nurse so much trouble. 
But it must have cost Ivan a great deal." 

“ I don't suppose Thorpe minds that." 


804 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


“ No, indeed ; Ivan spares no expense. But it was not Ivan 
who bought that lovely couvre-piea^ all covered with embossed 
flowers, and fit for a princess ; and it is not Ivan who keeps 
my room supplied with hot-house flowers, — and then the fruit 
and game.^^ 

“Chut! As though such a trifle matters, my dear Miss 
Thorpe ! It is a charity to eat our grapes ; we have more than 
we want at the Witchens.^^ 

“ Oh, of course you do not wish to be thanked, but all the 
same I mean to thank you. And now will you give your step- 
mother a message ? I know it is she or Miss Pauline who ar- 
ranges those lovely baskets. Will you tell her that if either she 
or Miss Pauline will call to see me I shall be too glad to thank 
them in person 

‘‘Would you really care to see Madella?’^ returned Launce- 
lot, in a pleased voice ; for he had not expected this. 

“ Yes, I shall care to see any of your belongings, Mr. Chud- 
leigh.^^ And she continued rather plaintively, for somehow it 
seemed easier for her to talk to Launcelot than to Ivan of her 
trouble, “But I am not unselfish in my request. If you only 
knew how grateful I am for anything to break the monotony 
of the long day ! I suppose it is because one is weak that one 
cannot control one’s thoughts.” 

“Even in health it is difficult to do so,” he replied, gravely. 

“ Yes, but mine are such sad thoughts. I am always think- 
ing of past mistakes, and if it be too late to hope to rectify 
them. Mr. Chudleigh, I wanted to tell you that you were 
right in what you said to me about Joan. I am afraid I was 
too hard on her.” 

“Would you like to see her and tell her so?” he returned, 
in the most matter-of-fact way, and not at all as though her 
remark surprised him. 

“ Yes — no — Ivan would not like it. He wished me to have 
nothing to dcr with her ; he told me so. I asked him if I 
should go and see Joan, and he said certainly not.” 

“ He has taken strange means to keep you apart, then.” 

“ How do you mean ?” 

“ Why, Mrs. Thorpe is here, — living here, — and has been here 
for the last month ; but they were all too much afraid to let 
you know. The moment Mrs. Thorpe heard of your accident 
she came here to her husband and begged to be allowed to 
nurse you ; but he would not listen to that for a moment, be- 
cause Dr. Maxwell said you were to be kept so quiet and 
nothing was to worry you, so she went back. But the next 
day Thorpe fetched her, and she has been here ever since.” 

“Joan here !” and Miss Thorpe’s tone was a little excited. 
“Then that was the reason they would not leave my door 
open, and that Ivan stayed so little with me at first ! Ah, that 
accounts, too, for all that puzzled me. I thought he seemed 
so unaccountably cheerful,— more as though he were trying to 
look grave than if he really felt so.” 


WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE HERV^ 


806 


“ Poor fellow ! I suspect it was hard for him to disguise his 
feelings. Miss Thorpe, it is just as I told you : they are two 
of the happiest people in the world now they understand each 
other, — only they want you to share their happiness. 

shall only* spoil it, as I spoiled it before, she replied, 
bluntly. 

“No ; you are wiser now, and will do nothing of the kind. 
Providence has taken matters out of your hands. Your sister- 
in-law is re-established in her proper place, and is only long- 
ing for a complete reconciliation. Let me tell her that you 
are ready to see her.^^ 

“To-day, — now? Oh, I am not strong enough for a scene,— 
you have no idea how weak I am, and Joan is so excitable.^’ 
And the old irritable look came into RachePs eyes. 

“I will not press you against your will,” returned Launce- 
lot, gently, “tnough I think you would sleep better to-night 
and enjoy greater rest of mind, if you made the effort. But 1 
am afraid I am tiring you ; I have already talked too much.” 
But Miss Thorpe would not let him go ; she looked anxious 
and undecided, in just the nervous state that would certainly 
induce a sleepless night. 

“You are disappointed in me,” she said at last, very ab- 
ruptly; “you thought I was a better Christian. I want to 
see Joan, but I cannot summon up courage to send for her : 
my weakness is making me a coward for the first time in my 
life. Of course you cannot understand such miserable inde- 
cision.” 

Launcelot seemed to ponder over these words ; he was 
bringing his common sense to bear on the difficulty. Miss 
Thorpe was nervous, but delay would only increase her ner- 
vousness ; she seemed to dread a probable scene, but what if 
there should be no scene ? Thorpe was out of the way, — he 
had gone up to town. Should he take it on himself? 

“I am afraid I must disappoint you ; I can’t bring myself 
to send for her,” she said, in quite a despairing voice. 

“All right, don’t flurry yourself; I will bring her,” re- 
turned Launcelot, cheerfully ; and he actually walked out of 
the room, leaving Miss Thorpe too much astonished at this 
brisk treatment to utter a word. She had not even the pres- 
ence of mind to call him back, or to forbid this independent 
action on his part; she could only lie there grim and pale, 
with nervous coldness creeping round the region of her heart. 

How long it was since he had gone ! Ten minutes, surely ! 
Of course Joan was standing on her dignity and would not 
come. Well, she was the mistress of the house, and there 
would be no one to interfere with her rights just now. A 
poor paralyzed creature with shattered nerves was not likely 
to be a formidable rival. 

“I will own my fault against her. I will place myself in 
the wrong, and perhaps that will satisfy her ; and I will try 
and hold my tongue when she aggravates me with some of 
u 


806 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


her Irish speeches ; but more than that I dare not promise.'* 
Rachel was working herself up to just that restless point when 
sheer nervousness would induce her to say the wrong thing ; 
in her heart she was longing for Joanns forgiveness, if her 
pride could ever stoop to entreat for it ; but it was just this 
confession that was so difficult to her reserved, undemon- 
strative nature. 

Poor Rachel lay quaking in no very enviable state of mind 
and body when Launcelot^s quick tap at the door announced 
his return ; but he only stood by it a moment to let Joan pass 
him, and then closed it gently on them and went down-stairs. 

Rachel put out her hand and tried to speak as Joan came up 
to her couch. No doubt Launcelot haa been carefully tutor- 
ing Joan for the part she was to play, for her step was quiet 
and her manner composed, until the sight of that helpless 
figure under the eider-down quilt stirred her out of her com- 
posure. That Rachel, the strong, untiring, energetic woman, 
should be lying there helpless as a child ! Oh, the pity of it ! 
Joan forgot the part assigned her there ; instead of the calm, 
matter-of-fact greeting that was to pass between them, she 
threw her arms round Rachel, and burst into impulsive tears. 

“Oh, my poor dear,^’ she said, “this is too dreadful ! To 
see you lying here and not able to move, and they would not 
let me come to you, or help nurse you, though I would have 
dane anything to save you a moment^s pain ! Oh, you poor 
thing ! you poor thing kissing her and stroking her as 
though she were a child, and all the time the tears were run- 
ning down her cheeks in Joanns impulsive way. 

“ Oh, Joan,^^ began Rachel, faintly ; but Joan would not 
let her speak. 

“ Oh, the times I have begged Ivan just to let me creep into 
the room and sit by you a little when you were asleep ! for I 
thought if you woke up and found me here, you would have 
said to yourself, ‘ So Joan has come back, and wants to make 
herself useful, poor child ; and I will be good to her and let 
her stop ; and there shall not be a word said about her bad 
behavior, because we are sisters and Ivan has forgiven her .^ '' 

“Joan — ^Joan, — will you let me speak 

“No, darling, not until you have kissed me, and that will 
tell me without any words that you too have forgiven me ; for 
Mr. ChudlMgh says that you are too weak to talk, and that 
there must be no scene at all ; and he is the best man in the 
world next to Ivan, and so he must be obeyed. Ah, now I 
have made you cry, and Ivan and Mr. Chudleigh will be angry 
with me ! Oh, my dear, my dear ! ^ease don’t do it !” And 
Joan put her own handkerchief to Kachel’s eyes, and coaxed 
and made much of her, until the sweetness of those caresses 
seemed to melt the hard, frozen weight round Rachel’s heart. 
Joan had taken her by storm ; there was no place for pride, 
no opportunity even for confession. 

Rachel in her weakness and confusion could only bring out 


WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE HERP* 


807 


a broken word or two at intervals, which Joan promptly 

? uenched. “ Sorry ! of course you are sorry, and so am I, that 
was such a bad, ill-tempered girl that you could not love me 
a bit ; but we won^t talk about that now ; it is dead and gone, 
as the children say. Oh, I am to forgive you, am I ? I thought 
it was I who was to be forgiven. But you shall have your own 
way. Now let me get you your tea, — nurse has gone out for 
a walk. Will it tire you too much to tell me how you like 
things, or shall Merton come up ?” 

‘‘No, no; please stop with me, Joan.^^ 

“ Oh, I must kiss you again for that, it is so dear of you to 
want me. Now tell me, darling, will you have the curtains 
closed and the lamp lighted, or do you prefer the twilight 
“ Whichever you like, Joan.^^ 

“ Very well ; if I am to choose I should like the lamp, be- 
cause I can see you better there, and you do look so nice ! I 
wonder whether it is the gray hair that suits you so, or that 
lovely quilt and that dainty little blue shawl ! I never saw 
you in anything but black before. Now, do you like the 
round table close to your couch? and may I have my tea 
here too? or will it disturb you?^^ And as Bachel shook 
her head, Joan tripped about the room and made her little 
preparations, quite unconscious of the tide of penitence and 
love that was rising in Bachehs breast. 

Bachel knew as she watched her that she had hungered 
secretly for a sight of Joanns bonnie face. The girPs fresh 
beauty and simple unconscious ways filled her with surprise 
and admiration. How gracefully and quietly she moved about 
the room ! how lightly and easily she touched things ! Her 
questions did not fatigue Bachel, though their childishness 
made her smile. She was so anxious to please in trifles, so 
sure that Bachel must know her own mind and regulate her 
sick-room, she would scarcely take her own tea, of which she 
made a pretence, for watching every mouthful that Bachel 
took. “Is that all you take?’^ she said, sorrowfully, when 
the little meal was ended, — “just a crumb of sponge-cake that 
would feed a canary 

It was not until Joan had cleared away the tea-things and 
brushed up the hearth that she consented to sit quietly down 
and talk a little, and then it was that Bachel made her little 
speech, though it was not quite the speech she intended. 

“Joan, I believe we have both been to blame for the past 
trouble. If you had guarded your temper better and I had 
provoked you less and made things easier for you, you would 
never have left Ivan. And, my dear, for my own peace of 
mind you must let me say this, that my greatest sin against 
you was keeping Ivan in ignorance that you had left your 
situation. A less generous woman than yourself would find 
it hard to forgive that ; and though you and he may pass it 
over in your mutual content and happiness, it is that sin I 
tannot forgive myself. 


808 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


** Then you are very naughty and uncharitable to your poor 
self, Rachel, and we shall have to be dreadfully fond of you 
to make up for your own hardness. But Rachel only smiled 
at this very Irish sophistry, and went on, — 

“ If repentance means trying to do better, I hope to prove 
to both you and Ivan that I am truly repentant, though I am 
not a woman to put my deeds into words. To be sure, there 
is nothing I can do for either of you now ; I can give nothing 
and receive everything, — which seems a very unfair arrange- 
ment under the circumstances.” 

“Not at all,” maintained Joan, stoutly. “The real kind- 
ness and charity will be letting me wait on you after what 
has passed, giving sisterly rights to one who has justly for- 
feited them. It is you who will be the generous one, Rachel, 
when you permit me to take my place here. This room is 
your castle, and no one can invade it without your leave and 
license.” 

“Then I will make you free of it. Come when you like 
and as often as you like, Joan, and I will try to be a good 
sister to you, — and you know I never say things lightly.” 
And Joan, who had ever honored Rachel in her heart in spite 
of all her girlish anger, knew that this was the truth, and 
that when Rachel could speak such words their reconciliation 
was indeed complete. 

When Mr. Thorpe came back that evening he marvelled 
greatly that Joan was not on the watch to greet him as usual. 
The drawing-room and study were both deserted. 

“She must be up-stairs dressing for dinner,” he thought, 
and he wondered what gown she would wear, and if the dark 
red chrysanthemums he had brought with him would be 
available to complete her toilette ; for it had become a habit 
with him to bring her in flowers ever since he had seen her 
delight over a few orchids he had brought her once from a 
friend’s conservatory. 

He had something else for her to-night, — a beautiful gipsy 
ring with three diamonds sunk in the thick gold band, that 
was to replace the old gold keeper, — for he knew well that 
this was the anniversary of their wedding-day, though he 
had taken no notice of the fact ; and he wondered if Joan 
had recolle^ed it, she was always so careless of dates. In 
reality Joan was aware of it, but a sort of mixture of pride 
and humility and wholesome shame prevented her from men- 
tioning it to Ivan. She thought that Ivan, like herself, re- 
coiled from the memory of that cold, bleak wedding, when 
she had stood before the altar a shy, reluctant bride, who 
knew nothing of the nature of the man she was marrying, 
except that he had spoken kindly to her and had promised 
her a comfortable home. 

Ivan was in a far more lover-like mood now as he stood 
chafing in his empty study, with the brilliant ring hidden in 
waistcoat pocket and the dusky-red flowers in his hand, think- 


WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE HERV^ 


309 


Irg of Joan’s girlish fancy for diamonds because they flashed 
so brightly, while opposite to him hung Launcelot’s picture 
in its handsome frame, — “My sonne’s fair wife Elizabeth.” 
“ Poor Chudleigh !” he thought, as his eyes fell on it. But he 
never confessed even to himself the reason of his pity ; a sort 
of delicacy prevented him even from dwelling on the thouglit. 

Once, in sheer wifely honesty, Joan tried to tell him of that 
little scene, with hot blushes of shame on her face ; but he 
had stopped her at once. 

“ I am the last man to whom you should tell it, Joan. For- 
get it, — every word,— and only pray that your husband may 
be worthy of the friendship of such a man.” And then he 
muttered to himself in a tone of grief that filled Joan’s heart 
with dismay and girlish compunction, “And he must be the 
scapegoat ; he must expiate our sins, — Joan’s and Rachel’s 
and mine ; and that pure, large nature must suffer ; but at 
least his suffering s>hall be respected by me.” And Joan had 
hardly ventured to open her lips for a long time after that. 

As Joan had failed him, Mr. Thorpe restrained his impa- 
tience and went into his sister’s room to cheer her up with half 
an hour’s conversation ; but he was hardly prepared for the 
sight that met his eyes. For Rachel, worn out with the emo- 
tions of the last few hours, had fallen asleep with her hand in 
Joan’s ; Joan was sitting as still as a mouse, almost afraid to 
draw her breath comfortably for fear of disturbing that light 
slumber. She looked up and held up a warning finger as her 
husband advanced cautiously towards her. Joan’s ruddy 
brown hair was shining in the lamplight ; her eyes had a 
thoughtful look in them. 

“Oh, you have waked her,” she said, regretfully, as Rachel 
opened her eyes and looked at them. “I heard your step, 
Ivan, but I could not come to meet you as usual ; Rachel and 
I have been having such a nice talk !” 

“Joan has been very good to me,” returned Rachel, in a 
subdued voice, and the look that passed between the brother 
and sister was more eloquent than any words. “ Yes, you may 
take her away now, for I don’t mean to be selfish, and she has 
been sitting here all the afternoon ; but you may both come 
to me after dinner if you will.” 

“ Oh, Ivan, we are going to be sisters,” exclaimed Joan, 
when she found herself alone with her husband. “Poor 
Rachel, — I mean to love her so dearly for your sake, and for 
her own too. Fancy her begging my pardon, and making out 
that she was the one in the wrong ! I tried to stop her, but I 
soon saw it was useless, so I let her talk, and then she fell 
asleep.” 

Mr. Thorpe’s answer was a very tangible one. When Joan 
saw the diamonds sparkling on her finger, and knew that 
Ivan had remembered that it was their wedding-day, her de- 
light was unbounded. 

“ I wonder if it is wrong to be so happy !” she whispered. 


810 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


“ Sometimes I am afraid that it is too good tc last, — you spoil 
me so dreadfully, Ivan, and it is not as though I deserved it 
and then with one of those swift changes of mood that had 
been her fascination in Launcelot^s eyes, her lovely face 
clouded, and she clung to her husband almost convulsively. 

“Don^t be so good to me, Ivan. I ought not to forget all 
my past sins against you, and I know you will never remind 
me of them.’^ 

Never, love ; you are right there. Do you think I mean 
to fling stones at my poor little sweetheart because she would 
not learn the lesson I was too stupid to teach her ? — We are 
both learning it together now. ‘ And with what measure ye 
mete,^ — oh, these are grand words, Joan.^^ 

Joanns reply was not in words ; she only touched her hus- 
band's hand reverently with her lips. Oh, how good he and 
Mr. Chudleigh were ! Could she ever have expected that such 
forgiveness could be accorded her, — that after all her wilful 
wanderings and failures she should be led into the paths of 
pleasantness and peace ! 

Joan was learning new lessons of womanliness and self- 
guidance in a good school ; love and confidence were bidding 
* fair to eradicate the faults and ripen the virtues in Joan’s 
nature. Joan, who had lived like a heathen in her aunt’s 
time, and had hardly opened her Bible, and had only gabbled 
her prayers by rote after parrot fashion, was learning now 
that religion meant something more than going to church 
and listening to sermons. 

In her husband’s eyes, and in Launcelot Chudleigh’s too, 
it meant to “do justly and walk humbly” with their God, to 
love truth for truth’s own sake, and to live the highest life 
possible ; it meant loving others as well as themselves ; and in 
Launcelot’s case it meant even more, for it included a pas- 
sionate love of service, a disposition to give more than “ must,” 
asking for little in return,’ and a courage that would not scru- 

f le even at plucking out the right eye if duty demanded it, as 
oan knew well. 

After all it was Rachel, not Ivan, who taught Joan to read 
her Bible, and who took herself most to task for the girl’s 
heathenish ignorance. “ She knows absolutely nothing about 
religion,” she said once almost in despair to Ivan. “An 
intelligent child in the Sunday-school would put her to 
shame ; she owns she has never even thought about these 
things.” 

“ It mustbe your mission to teach her, Rachel,” he returned, 
with a smile ; for this information did not seem to shock him. 
Rachel was a rigid disciplinarian, and he would not wound 
her sensitive scruples by hinting that possibly Joan might be 
fulfilling her religious duties more fully by controlling her 
temper than by reading a series of doctrinal essays. Joan 
might be a later gleaner in the field of truth, but at least she 
would be diligent and painstaking to the extent of her power 


LAUNCELOT’S PICTURE. 


311 


and her simplicity might gather i n a richer harvest than many 
a wiser and better woman. 

“If I were only as good as Ivan — to the end of her life 
Joan would say this, for with added light and larger responsi- 
bility came a more poignant sense of imperfection. It was a 
good feature in her character that Joan never glossed over her 
ill-doing in the past, ne ver made light of it or extenuated her 
conduct. “Oh, I was not a Christian then,” she would say, 
with one of her frank, sweet looks. “If I had known all I 
know now, I would never have done it. I wish for my chil- 
dren's sake that their mother had been a good woman ; but 
Ivan never wishes them to know, and he is good enough for 
both,” finished Joan, with a smile and a sigh. 


CHAPTEK XXXVIII. 

LAUNCELOT^S PICTURE. 

** It was the Sea of Sorrow; and I stood 
At midnight on the shore. The heavy skies 
Hung dark above ; the voice of them that wept 
Was heard upon the waters, and the chill 
Sad going of a midnight wind, which stirred 
No wave thereon.” 

Ezekiel and other Poems. 

When Launcelot looked back years afterwards to this period 
of his life, he would call it, smilingly, “ the winter of his dis- 
content,” when he was least satisfied with himself and his 
surroundings. 

“I was a grumbling sort of fellow then,” he would say 
“ I had been a devout believer in human happiness, an optirn 
ist in every sense of the word ; but just then things went 
wrong with me, and I felt as though the poor old world had 
turned topsy-turvy. I am afraid I was a selfish fool in those 
days.” 

Launcelot was inclined to ary peccavi^ because unexpected 
trouble had befallen him, but all the same he carried his 
burthen steadily, and with a good deal of courage. 

After all, most people have to undergo this sort of experi- 
ence and revulsion. There are sterile bits of bleak wilderness 
in most lives. Sometimes one has to cross them in youth, 
sometimes in middle age. 

Even in old age one shivers a little at the recollection of 
these barren tracts. How vast and unending they looked to 
our unaccustomed eyes ; how sombre the light ; how desolate 
the surroundings ; what a sense of isolation, of unapproacb 


S12 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


able loneliness in those great solitudes when we are set face to 
face with ourselves, and no other ! 

There are some who carry piteous records of their dreary 
pilgrimage to their dying day,— some whom even present 
prosperity will never cheat into utter oblivion of a bitter past, 
— but with most the dark days are forgotten in the warmth 
of household fires ; they have only a scar or two to remind 
them of the wounds that had once cost them such cruel throbs 
of agony. Time is the great healer, they say, and in a sense 
that is true. 

Launcelot was quite ready for any consolation that might 
ofifer itself. He had no desire to become an eccentric misan- 
thrope because his love had ended disastrously. But he could 
not deny to himself that life had become a very humdrum, 
ordinary aflTair; that his enthusiasms had died a natural 
death ; that all pleasures seemed fiat, stale, and unprofit- 
able, and that he seemed to take interest in nothing but his 
work. 

Launcelot would tell himself that not enjoyment and not 
sorrow is our destined end or way,^^ for he loved at all times 
to philosophize ; but this refiection brought more satisfaction 
to his head than his heart, that ached with its novel feeling 
of loneliness. “Never mind, it is dogged that does it,'^ he 
would say, applying the words of one of Trollope^ s characters 
to his own case. “ I will stick to my work and do the best I can 
for other people, and leave my happiness to take care of it- 
self. 

Launcelot kept his word stoutly. He worked with a will 
during the remainder of the winter, and finished his picture, 
which was exhibited in May; but, to the chagrin of more 
than one would-be purchaser, it was not for sale ; no price 
could have tempted Launcelot to part with it. 

One afternoon he took his sister Beatrix to see it. She had 
stopped with the Sylvesters until the middle of January, and 
had then paid a round of visits in Devonshire, moving from 
one house to another, for the Chudleighs had a large circle of 
Devonshire friends. It was the end of May now, and she 
had only been at the Witchens a week. 

Launcelot thought she was very much improved. She was 
a little quieter and less decided in manner, but she seemed 
tolerably cheerful. Perhaps she might be a trifie thin, but 
she looked wonderfully pretty, and as Launcelot walked with 
her through the rooms of Burlington House, he was aware 
that his companion attracted a good deal of attention. 

“What a crowd there is round that small picture in the 
corner observed Beatrix, presently. “Lend me the cata- 
logue a moment, Launce, I must look out the number ; ‘ 408, 
The Sea of Sorrow ; by Launcelot Chudleigh.^ Why, it is 
your picture ! what a strange name ! and there is some poetry 
written under it.^^ And Bee^s face grew serious as she read 
the lines to herself : 


LAUNCELOT^S PICTURE. 


818 


* It was the Sea of Sorrow ; neither sun 
Nor moon did lighten it ; the waters slept. 

And dreamed not as they slept, for smile nor frown 
Did cross their face. Around the mountains swept 
Like a great host at rest ; and I beheld 
The shadow of Eternity lie deep 
And heavy on the sea.” 

Bee made no further comment on the lines, but her face 
grew eager and wistful as she waited until there was space for 
her to edge in. When at last she took her place before the 
picture she gave a little quick sigh of appreciation, though 
she did not speak, but as Launcelot glanced at her he was 
more than satisfied with the result of his work. At least there 
was one who would understand his meaning. 

And yet it seemed to puzzle many of the spectators. “ Oh, 
what a dreadfully sad picture ! is it an allegory, papa?” Bee 
heard one young girl say. 

In very truth it was a sombre picture. A little boat with 
three figures in it was tossing on a wild and desolate sea. 
Scarped cliffs and rugged rocks bounded the inhospitable 
shore. A murky sort of twilight seemed to brood over the 
sullen waves. Only across the track of the water came a faint 
radiance as though heralding light. 

The figures were very striking. An old man in fisherman’s 
garb was seated in the stern ; a broken oar was in his hand* 
the other had drifted. Hopelessness was written in his as- 

E ect, his head was sunk, his gray beard drooped on his breast, 
is knotted, work-worn hands still grasped the useless oar. 
Of what avail were his thews and sinews now, when the mer- 
ciless tide threatened to dash their rude bark against the 
pitiless rocks ? By his side was a woman in a mourning cloak. 
The hood had fallen back, and showed a face, young, but hag- 
gard and wild with misery. Despair was stamped upon her 
features, her strained eyes had a fixed look of horror in them; 
the palms of the hands were pressed, not in supplication, but 
in misery. At the prow stood a youth in a minstrel dress : 
his head was bare and his hair dishevelled. His face was 
pale like his companions, but there was a steadfastness and 
fortitude in his attitude, as he gazed with unblenching eyes 
across the water. 

Bee’s eyes seemed to turn in the same direction, and then 
she perceived that the faint light streaming over the water 
came from a lamp held by a shadowy hand half hidden by 
clouds. There was a wound in the palm as though a nail 
had pierced it, and Bee in her awe and girlish reverence knew 
what that kingly hand signified. 

“ Oh, Launce, how beautiful !” she began. But she did not 
finish her sentence, for at the sound of her voice a gentleman 
who was standing before her looked round hurriedly, and, 
raising his hat, moved away. Bee turned a little pale as 
she bowed in response, 
o 


27 


814 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


“ Oh, wait a moment, Oscar. I have not half looked at it,” 
observed the lady who was with him, and Bee saw a very 
pale, insignificant-looking girl trying to detain him. Bee, 
who was wedged in by the crowd behind her, bore her awk- 
ward position almost heroically. She kept her eyes on the 
picture all the time Oscar Hamblyn was trying to make a way 
for himself and his wife. And though her expression was 
a little fixed, and there was a faint quivering of the nostrils. 
Bee held her head as proudly as ever. “There is no hurry,” 
observed Erica, rather fretfully, as she joined her husband. 
“ I wish you cared more for pictures, but they seem to bore 
you.” 

Bee did not hear any more, but that one glance had shown 
the sombre, dissatisfied look on Oscar ^s face, that had once 
seemed to her the perfection of manly beauty. 

“ She is very plain,” she said to herself with a sort of shud- 
der, and then the press behind her relaxed, and Launcelot 
took her and drew her aside. 

“ I am so sorry. Bee,” he whispered ; “ but the world is such 
a small place after all. Shall we sit down and rest a little?” 
But Bee’s pride would not allow such confession of weakness, 
though her limbs were trembling under her, and a sort of gid- 
diness prevented her from seeing the pictures. “Oh, I am 
not so very tired,” she observed ; “ we had better do this room 
thoroughly.” And Bee found the place in her catalogue, and 
pretended to ignore the fact that her successful rival was 
standing a few yards from her. 

Launcelot smiled grimly to himself as he saw Oscar’s con- 
fusion and discomfiture. His wife, who had a will of her own, 
had absolutely refused to accompany him to the other room, 
and was giving methodical attention to each picture in turn. 
Oscar might grumble and pull his moustache savagely as his 
pale little helpmeet put up her eyeglasses and peered into 
every picture, but he knew of old that Erica could be ob- 
stinate. He revenged himself, however, by taking stolen 
glances at Bee’s half-averted face, which looked lovelier than 
ever in its girlish pride. 

“ He shall not see that I care so very much,” Bee was say- 
ing to herself, for she had learned something in these nine 
months, “ but oh,” becoming weak and womanly in a minute, 
“ I wish that she looked nicer for his sake. I am afraid he is 
not happy.” Bee tormented herself with this refiection long 
after her first^ sickening heart-throb at the sight of her faith- 
less lover had cjuieted down ; but if she had really grasped 
the truth of things, it was Erica to whom pity was due,, 
though, as her sister-in-law would say contemptuously, “ Erica 
married Oscar with her eyes open.” 

Young Mrs. Hamblyn was making the best of a bad bargain. 
She was giving everything and receiving a very scanty return ; 
her wifely devotion was taken as a matter of course ; her 
liberality could not satisfy the grasping natures of the Ham- 


LAUNCELOT^S PICTURE. 


815 


blyn family. Even before their honeymoon was over Erica 
had discovered that she must keep the mastery in her own 
hands, for fear her husband's prodigality and weak will should 
swamp them. 

Bee need not have wasted her pity. Oscar had already far 
more than his deserts. His plain-faced little wife adored him, 
though she kept him in order and drew her purse-strings 
tiglitly for his good. He dared not neglect her, as he would 
have neglected any other woman when his first fancy was 
over, and, in spite of her insignificance, he would be obliged 
to respect her. 

Poor Bee was to undergo another unwelcome encounter. 
They were just entering another room, when a fair, highly- 
bred-looking man stopped j ust in front of them and offered 
Bee his hand. 

‘‘ I scarcely ventured to hope we should meet again, Miss 
Chudleigh," he said, with such unconcealed pleasure in his 
voice that Bee blushed as she introduced him to her brother as 
Captain Elliott. 

“I am going down to Southampton to-night," he said, look- 
ing at her wistfully. ‘‘You know our regiment is embark- 
ing?" 

“ I hope Lady Elliott and your sisters are quite well," re- 
turned Bee, politely. “Yes, I heard from Maggie Sylvester 
that you were going." 

Just then one of Launcelot's numerous acquaintances ac- 
costed him, and he dropped back a few paces ; when he re- 
joined them Captain Elliott was taking his leave. 

“ Good-by," Bee said, as she gave him her hand very gently. 
“I hope you will have a good passage." And then Captain 
Elliott raised his hat and turned away. 

“Well, my dear," began Launcelot, but she stopped him hur- 
riedly. “ Oh, Launce, I am so tired ! do, please, take me home." 
And then he saw that she looked very white and shaken. But 
as they walked down Piccadilly he said, quietly, — 

“ I am glad I saw Captain Elliott, Bee ; he is just what I 
expected to find him ; a fine, manly-looking fellow, of whom 
any woman might be proud." And then, as Bee did not 
answer, he went on: “You know Madella tells me every- 
thing, and so, of course, I am aware you have given him his 
cong6 ; he looks rather down, poor fellow !" 

“Don't talk about it," she returned, in a subdued voice; 
“if you knew how unhappy it made me! But none of his 
people blame me. They know I gave him no encouragement, 
Lady Elliott told me so herself." 

“ Does he know the reason of your refusal. Bee ?" 

“That I cared for some one else. Oh, yes. Of course he 
deserved to know the truth. I am afraid," and here she 
blushed again, “that he has not quite given up hope. He 
says when he comes back to England he will try again." 

‘‘ Then I for one, vote Captain Elliott a brick," returned 


816 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


Launcelot, enthusiastically. “ Now, Bee, you silly child, don't 
look at me reproachfully, as though I don't understand. Take 
my advice ; put him and every other man out of your head for 
a little while, and by and by. when things look a little brighter, 
you will soon find out gold from dross, and who is the right 
man after all.'' And then he broke ott* and said, a little wist- 
fully, “ I think you read my parable truly. Bee." 

“ Do you mean the picture V Oh, Launce, I am so glad you 
will not sell it. You must hang it in your studio, and then I 
can look at it sometimes ; it will be better than a sermon." 

I will show you the poem when I get home," was all his 
answer, and Bee looked at him with a mute reverence. Launce 
was in some way altered, she thought, and yet no trouble ever 
seemed to touch him. Where had he learned all his wisdom? 
No one ever seemed to understand and sympathize like Launce. 

Bee would have to do without him soon, for Launcelot was 
to start the next day for his long-deferred trip. A friend of 
his was going on a sketching excursion through Switzerland 
and the Austrian Tyrol, and Launcelot was to bear him com- 
pany through the summer and early autumn. 

Launcelot had finished his picture, and a vague restlessness 
made him anxious to be gone. The Witchens had grown like 
a prison to him, and he longed for a freer life and mountain 
air, and, like a wise woman, Mrs. Chudleigh made no attempt 
to keep him ; even when Launcelot spoke in a desultory way 
of Munich, and even Prague, in October she did not wince. 

" There is no reason why you should not have a long holi- 
day," she said, in quite a matter-of-fact way. “You know we 
shall be at Penzance most of the summer, and we shall do very 
well for a little while, even if you do ^ on. Geoffrey is older, 
and Ro much more thoughtful, and Bernard never gives us 
trouble now." 

“Yes, and I could come back if you wanted me," returned 
Launcelot. And so it was settled between them that he was 
to be perfectly free until Christmas. Perhaps Mrs. Chud- 
leigh's intuition told her how heavy the strain of these months 
had been, and as she looked at his careworn face, that was 
never without a bright smile for her, whatever his mood 
might be, she knew how greatly he needed change. 

So Launcelot went and feasted his eyes on the lovelin 3ss of 
snow-capped mountains and smiling valleys, and set himself 
to learn the^lesson that Dame Nature in her bountiful moods 
would teach all her weary children, — that, in spite of failures, 
life is full of grand and unutterable meanings, and that they 
who are not afraid to wait and possess their soul in patience 
will solve its enigmas by and by. 

Launcelot did not strive after any impossibilities. He never 
cheated himself with the idea that his youthful brightness 
would return, but he helped himself largely to the good things 
that still fell to his share, and in time owned himself moder- 
ately contented. His love of human fellowship drew him 


uAUNCELOT^S PICTURE. 817 

into congenial company, and his unfailing sympathy and 
kindly nature always surrounded him with friends. 

At this time of his life he mixed more exclusively with his 
own sex. He still loved the society of cultured and intelligent 
women, and was as great a favorite as ever with them ; but 
he had grown a little shy and reserved with them, as though 
resolved to carry out one of his friend^s speeches, — “that 
Chudleigh had resolved to eschew matrimony. 

“No, I shall never marry,^’ he would say, cheerfully; and 
in his heart he felt that he was speaking the truth. “ I mean 
to make a model bachelor uncle, and spoil all my nephews and 
nieces. 

It was towards the close of the summer, when Launcelot 
was wandering about the Austrian Tyrol, that he received an 
English paper and some letters with the Biversleigh postmark, 
and read the announcement : “On the 4th inst., the wife of 
Ivan Thorpe, of a son.^^ A letter from Mr. Thorpe and his 
sister accompanied the paper. Launcelot read his friend^s 
first. It was brief and concise, like the writer, but every word 
breathed intense pride and satisfaction. “ It is our great wish 
— ^Joan^s and mine— that you should stand sponsor for our 
boy,^^ he wrote. “ We have already made up our minds that 
he is to be called Launcelot. If you wish to complete our 
happiness you will agree to this. At present I can tell you 
little about him, except that he is a big, healthy fellow, 
with splendid lungs, and that he has his mother^s eyes. 
His aunt Rachel pronounces him a grand specimen of baby- 
hood. 

But the next sentence was of a diflerent character : 

“As your people are still at Penzance, I suppose you have 
not heard of MaxwelPs illness. He has had typhoid fever, 
and for some time things looked very serious, but he is on the 
mend now. I saw him yesterday, and he looked a ghost of 
himself. Poor Miss Charlotte is almost worn to a shadow 
with nursing and worry. Mrs. Maxwell was ill at the same 
time, though not from the same cause. Rachel misses her 
doctor sadly ; his visits were always welcome to her. Joan 
liked him exceedingly, and he had grown very intimate with 
us all.^^ 

RachePs letter was a little more descriptive : 

“You may imagine how delighted we all are, and how 

g roud I am of my new title. Ivan says little, but one can see 
ow happy he is. The other day he came into my room with 
his son in his arms (fancy Ivan acting nurse !), and laid 
him down beside me. You should have seen the expres- 
sion on his face, — his intense pride, and the pains he took to 
hide it. He cannot refrain from starting up every time he 
hears Baby cry ; but he will get used to it in time. As for 
Joan, she is lovelier than ever. I think just this was wanting 
to bring out her womanliness, — she is so much gentler. Baby 
is more like his mother than his father. He has Joan’s gray 

27* 


818 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


eyes and dark lashes, but his mouth will be like Ivan^w. I 
only hope we shall not spoil him among us. 

Has Ivan told you that we are going to move at Michael- 
mas ? There is no room for a baby and an invalid in this 
house. Ivan has made up his mind to take one of those red- 
brick houses on Overton Bise ; so we shall be near neighbors. 
Spring Mead is a very pleasant house, and has a large garden 
attached to it. They are going to give up a room on the 
ground floor for my use. It is the best room in the house, 
but no other will suit their purpose, as it opens on the veranda, 
and Ivan says I can be wheeled out on the lawn every flne 
day. 

Joan and he have planned it all without consulting me. 
Part of it is to be curtained off as my sleeping-room, and the 
remainder fltted up as a sitting-room, and Merton is to be my 
nurse. 

“ I have left oflf as many invalid habits as possible, and am 
as busy as my helplessness will allow. I am able to do a good 
deal for our Society in the way of correspondence, and, to my 
delight, I find I can assist Ivan materially in his additional 
work. Indeed, the day is not half long enough for all I have 
to do, and Joan pretends to grumble when she brings her 
work in and I am too busy to talk to her. 

“Joan is as great a chatterbox as ever, but she keeps us all 
lively; indeed, I cannot tell you how I missed her during 
those three weeks. I felt my helplessness then, when I could 
not even give her a kiss of congratulation. But now she and 
Baby spend hours in my room. 

“ But I am chattering on and wearying your patience. You 
must tell us all about yourself in return. 

“ I remain, my dear Mr. Chudleigh, 

“ Your aflfectionate friend, 

“Rachel Thorpe.” 

“Yes, she needed just that — the developing and softening 
touch of motherhood — to ripen her,” thought Launcelot, as 
he put aside the letters. And then after a little thought he 
wrote to his friend, congratulating him and sending kindly 
messages to Joan. He would accept the sponsorship, he saia, 
but they must not expect him to be present at the christening. 
He was going on to Munich and Prague, and there was little 
chance of his returning to the Witchens before Christmas. 


IS HEDLET TO ME,** 


319 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“he is hedley to me.’^ 

“ My fond affection thou hast seen, 

Then judge of my regret 
To think more happy thou hadst been 
If we had never met ! 

And has that thought been shared by thee? 

Ah, no ! that smiling cheek 
Proves more unchanging love for me 
Than labored words could speak.” 

Bayly. 

Towards the beginning of December Launcelot was setting 
his face homewards, and had reached Dresden, where he in- 
tended to spend a week or two renewing his acquaintance 
with the picture-galleries ; but he changed his intention on 
receiving a letter from his step-mother. Nothing had hap- 
pened ; his brothers and sisters were well, but there was a 
vague word or two that gave him the impression that she was 
disturbed and anxious, and was longing for his return, though 
her unselfishness forbade her to recall him. 

“We have never been so long apart, and I am counting the 
days until Christmas, she wrote, “ when we are to see your 
dear face again. Geoffrey is as good as possible and tries to 
take your place in everything, but you have always been my 
right hand, Launce, and somehow I feel lost without you. I 
would give much to see you sitting opposite me this evening ; 
but there, I am a selfish old mother, and you must not take 
any notice of my grumblings. 

“After all, there are other things in life beside picture-gal- 
leries,^^ thought Launcelot, “ and I have been away nearly 
seven months. It is I who am the selfish one.^^ And in his 
impulsive way he packed up his Gladstone, settled his hotel 
bill, took the first train that offered, and three days afterwards 
arrived at the Witchens. 

The welcome he received must have shown Launcelot how 
greatly he had been missed. Beaming faces surrounded the 
dearly-loved son and brother ; the very children — Sybil and 
Dossie— seemed to hang on his every word. Launcelot divided 
his attentions equally as well as he could. He had gifts for 
every one : some lovely Dresden china for his step-mother, 
pretty ornaments for his sisters, books for Geoffrey and Ber- 
nard, and a store of good things for the younger ones such as 
children love. 

“ But Dossie is not a little girl now,^^ he observed, as he 
looked at his favorite. Dossie was twelve years old now, and 
was growing tall and slim; her fair hair hung in a long, 
smooth plait below her waist ; her little oval face was as pale 


820 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


as ever, but the deep blue eyes had their old affectionate look 
Dossie did not speak her gladness in words ; she had grown 
shy with her old friend, but she watched his every look and 
was ready to anticipate his wishes as she sat in her corner mute 
as a bright-eyed mouse. 

Launcelot, in his quiet way, was trying to read every face in 
turn, and his shrewdness was not long at fault. “ It is about 
Pauline that she is anxious, he said to himself when he re- 
tired to his room later ; “the girl looks well, she has grown 
prettier, but all the same I see a change in her. I have an un- 
comfortable suspicion that it is about Maxwell, — no one men- 
tioned his name to-night, — but I hope not — I hope not.^^ 

It was not until late the following afternoon that he found 
himself alone with his step-mother ; the young master had had 
plenty of business to occupy him, and it was only when the 
dusk made idleness compulsory that he pushed aside his letters 
and settled himself for a chat. 

“ This is just what I like,” he said, lazily, as he threw him- 
self into an easy-chair beside Mrs. Chudleigh^s tea-table ; they 
were together in the morning-room, the girls were out with 
Geoffrey, and Sybil and Dossie were in the school-room with 
Mademoiselle, a good-humored, talkative little Parisienne, who 
had replaced Joan. 

Fenton had just placed a large log on the fire, and already 
it spluttered and blazed with ruddy light. Outside, the 
December moon was rising behind the cedar ; Mrs. Chudleigh 
was leaning back in her chair contemplating her boy^s bronzed 
face with deep satisfaction ; he looked better, healthier, she 
thought ; he was less thin, and the careworn expression had 
entirely gone. Perhaps he was a little older and graver, but 
what of that ? 

“Well, Madella?” he began again, this time inquiringly, 
and as she seemed a little surprised at his tone he continued, 
“ Of course I could see from your letter that something was 
troubling you, and so I came home at once ; no one has said a 
word to me, but all the same I know it is about Pauline.” 

“ Oh, Launce, how could you guess? I am sure dear Paul- 
ine was as cheerful as possible last night.” 

“Yes, but her cheerfulness was rather forced, and I noticed 
that she was a little shy with me. If you are going to tell me 
that she and Maxwell have fallen in love with each other, I 
can only say I am extremely sorry ; there is no man I like 
and respect more, but it is utterly impossible for him to 
marry.” 

“Yes, they both know that, and dear Pauline is so good 
about it. But, Launce, I do feel as though we have been 
most to blame. Why did we let her visit so much at Bridge 
House? She and Charlotte have been inseparable all the 
summer, and then there was that poor Brenda, and so she was 
always seeing him. How can any one wonder if they grew to 
care for each other?” 


IS HEDLEY TO ME.^^ 


821 


“ It is really so, then I Well, I can only say that I expected 
better things of a man like Dr. Maxwell. I thought, at least, 
that we could depend on him for upright, honorable dealing.” 
And Launcelot^s eyes flashed ominously and his brow grew 
dark, for Pauline was his favorite sister, and the idea of trouble 
coming to her through any man alive made him very sore. 

Mrs. Chudleigh looked frightened at her son^s expression ; 
he seemed almost as angry as he had been in Bee^s case. 

^‘Indeed, Launce, you are misjudging Dr. Maxwell,” she 
returned, eagerly. Sorry as I am for what has happened, I 
am convinced that he never meant to do wrong ; he never 
spoke until after his illness, when he was too weak to resist 
the sudden temptation. But let me tell you a little about 
it. Pauline wishes you to know, and then you will under- 
stand.” 

“I shall understand that life is an awful muddle to most 
people,” he returned, gloomily ; but she took no notice of this. 

“Well, you see, Launce, we were at Penzance when Dr. 
Maxwell was first taken with the feve^ though we returned 
home about a fortnight afterwards. I noticed Pauline was 
very much out of spirits just then, — restless and ill at ease, — 
but I was far too stupid to guess the cause. I spoke to Bee 
about it, but she threw no light on it at all. I know now that 
she was perfectly aware of the true state of the case, but she 
did not think it fair to betray Pauline. Nothing had passed 
between them, and Bee felt she had no right to pry into her 
sister^s secret. Well, we got back to the Witchens, and then 
Pauline seemed brighter and more like herself. Mrs. Max- 
well had been dangerously ill too, and Charlotte was almost 
worn out with her nursing, so Pauline went as a matter of 
course every day to sit with Brenda and Aunt Myra. She used 
to be there the greater part of the day, helping Charlotte with 
one or other of them, and it never entered into my head that 
there could be any risk.” 

Launcelot groaned, but he did not interrupt her. 

“When Dr. Maxwell became convalescent Pauline saw him 
almost daily. He assumed the right of an invalid to take 
possession of the drawing-room couch, and in this way they 
were thrown a great deal together.” 

“ And he spoke to her?” 

“ Yes, he spoke to her ; but, Launce, he assures me — ^for 1 
have seen him more than once— that nothing was further from 
his intention ; that though he has loved her for more than a 
year, he never intended to betray himself. He is full of re- 
morse and shame for what he has done, and accuses himself 
for his want of self-control most bitterly. He says that he of 
all men ought to have refrained from making love to any 
girl ; that there is no possibility of his marrying for the next 
ten years, if then ; that his long illness has only added to his 
difficulties ; and that his income will barely cover his expense* 
this year. 


822 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


“ ‘ What business had I to tell Pauline that I loved her,^ he 
said to ‘ and to draw from her an avowal of affection in 
return ? You ought to cut my acquaintance, Mrs. Chudleigh, 
for I have acted as dishonorably as possible to your daughter.* 
Oh, Door fellow ! I did feel sorry for him.^^ 

“ Of course you forgave him on the spot?^' 

“Well, Launce, you would have forgiven him yourself if 
you had heard him. Just consider the circumstances. They 
were together, and he was weak and very low from his illness. 
Pauline told me she was just trying to cheer him up when 
she saw him looking at her very strangely, and the next 
minute he told her that she must go away and leave him, for 
he could not bear to have her there and not speak ; but she 
stayed, and then it all came out that they loved each other.^^ 

“ I suppose Pauline agrees that it is a hopeless case?” 

“ Oh, yes ; but all the same she seems very happy, poor 
child ! She will have it that it is so much better for him to 
have spoken, that it has given her the right to think of him 
without feeling ashamed of doing so. I am afraid it has gone 
very deep with them both, Launce. She declares that she 
shall always feel as though she were engaged to him, that she 
does belong to him in a sort of way, and that she would rather 
live unmarried for his sake than marry any man living.” 

“ Oh, but this is all nonsense. You don^t mean to say that 
Maxwell has persuaded her into any sort of engagement?” 

“No, indeed; he has told her in my presence that she is 
absolutely free : he even begged her to forget his rash words. 
‘ I deserve to suffer,^ he said to her, * but I cannot bear to think 
that I have shadowed your bright young life and then turn- 
ing to me he said most earnestly, ‘ You must all teach her to 
forget me, Mrs. Chudleigh. She must not waste her youth 
and sweetness waiting for a time that may never come to 
either of us. I fear happiness is not for me, that I shall 
never know the blessing of wife or child. Will you let your 
son know when he comes home that I make no sort of appeal 
to his forbearance, — that I resign all rights but friendship?^ ” 
“And what did Pauline say to this?” 

“Well, poor darling! she was very impulsive. She told 
him just what I said to you just now, that it would be im- 
possible for her to marry any one else, because she should 
always feel as though she belonged to him, but she should be 
quite content that they should only be friends. 

“ ‘But you are free, — quite free,^ he reminded her. *I ask 
nothing — expect nothing.' 

“ ‘Oh, yes, I am as free as I wish to be, Hedley,' she said, 
smiling at him in such a sweet, womanly way. She always 
calls him Hedley, even to his mother, and after that there was 
little more to be said. You must talk to her, Launce, and see 
what is to be done ; but you will find her very firm.” 

“Yes, I will talk to her,” returned Launcelot, gravely, “ and 
I think 1 must have a word with Maxwell too, poor beggar I 


IS HEDLET TO ME,'^ 


I feel as sorry for him as possible, but all the same he ought 
to have held his tongue.^’ 

Pauline made no effort to avoid the impending interview 
with her brother. On the contrary, she rather sought for it 
than otherwise. When he asked her after dinner to come 
with him into the studio, she at once signified her readiness 
to do so, and only her rising color, as he looked at her half 
humorously, half sadly, betrayed her natural girlish emotion. 

“ Paul ! Paul ! I am afraid you have been very naughty.^* 

Pauline^s honest brown eyes grew a little wistful. 

I am so glad mother has told you everything, Launce ; I 
felt so uncomfortable last night, feeling you did not know.^^ 
And then she stopped, and continued almost in a whisper, 
‘‘You must not be angry with me or Hedley.^^ 

“Are you speaking of Dr. Maxwell, Paul?^^ 

“Yes, but he is Hedley to me.” Then Launcelot put his 
hands on her shoulders as she stood before him, looking so 
voting and pretty in her simple white gown, and regarded 
her very kindly. 

“ My poor little girl, has it gone as far as that ?” 

“ Yes, it has gone as far as that ; but, Launce, you must not 
speak in that pitying voice, as though some misfortune had 
overtaken me. I would rather be his friend and go on as we 
are doing all my life long than be the wife of any other 
man.” 

“You think so now ; but, Paul, try to look at things in a 
more reasonable light ; believe me that I am speaking for the 
interest of you both. Such an arrangement as you seem to 
contemplate is perfectly impossible ; it would not work. How 
are you to be friends with a man who would marry you to- 
morrow if he could?” 

Pauline blushed a little at this plain speaking, but he had 
not silenced her. 

“ I must try and make you understand better what I mean, 
but it is so difficult to explain things. You know mother has 
been very kind to us ; she was dreadfully sorry when Hedley 
spoke to me, but she did not forbid my going to Bridge House. 
She said she would wait until you came home and see what 
you would say, so I have been there as usual, and Hedley and 
1 have talked over things. You are not really vexed with 
him, are you, dear?” interrupting herself as she saw the 
gravity on her brother's face. 

“ I think he ought not to have spoken, certainly.” 

“ Oh, but it was more my fault than his ; he told me to 
leave him because he was too weak to leave me, but I did not 
obey him ; but indeed — indeed— I would not have it other- 
wise ; donT you see that it is just this that is to make my lifers 
happiness? Whatever happens, and however far we may be 
separated, I shall always know what I am to him, — that in a 
way we belong to each other.” 

Launcelot shook his head ; his man’s reason protested 


324 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


against this girlish sophistry, but in his heart he loved her all 
the more for her innocence and generosity. 

‘‘ I don^t think Maxwell ought to hold you to any sort of 
engagement, either open or implied,*^ he said, rather severely. 

“ Hedley says the same as you : he will not let me consider 
myself engaged to him ; he persists that I am absolutely free, 
and that if I married to-morrow he would have no right to 
reproach me. He begged me to forget all about it until he 
saw that that sort of talk made me too miserable, and then he 
said that if it would make me happier to know that he should 
love me all his life I might be quite certain on that point, for 
he was not a man to change, but that we must put aside all 
thoughts of any future, together, for as long as his mother 
and sisters lived he could see no chance of his marrying.^^ 
“Then how do you propose to act under these circum- 
stances? You surely would not go to Bridge House three or 
four times a week ?” 

“ Why not?^^ she returned, boldly, and he could see that she 
meant to be firm. “Why should I be separated from my 
dearest friends? Charlotte and I have grown to be like sis- 
ters ; and as for Brenda, I think I love her more every day.^^ 
“ But, my dear child 

“Wait a moment, Launce ; they know about everything, 
and they are all so good to me. Mrs. Maxwell says she is as 
fond of me as though I were her own daughter ; why should 
I deprive them of what is their greatest pleasure? Yes, I 
would go as usual, and read to Brenda and Aunt Myra, and 
help Mrs. Maxwell with her new stitches ; but you need not 
be afraid, I should choose the time when Hedley is engaged 
with his professional duties. We should seldom meet, and 
never alone ; now and then I might see him, and speak a 
friendly word or two, but you may trust us both, — neither of 
us would think of seeking a meeting.^^ 

“ But all the same you would think of nothing else.^^ 

“You are wrong, dear,’^ looking up in his face with a swov,. 
candid expression. “ Only trust me, and you will see how it 
will work, how content I shall be, how eager to do all you wish 
me to do ; indeed, I mean to be happy, Launce ; I will not waste 
time by fretting for what may never come. There was only 
one thing I felt I could not bear, — and that nearly broke me 
down, — and that was when we were at Penzance, and I thought 
Hedley would die without telling me he loved me, though 1 
could see even then that he cared. Oh ! I was so wretched, 
but I did not dare let mother or Bee know, though Bee guessed 
it, and was as kind as possible ; and then we came home, and 
when I saw him we seemed to understand each other without 
a word.^^ 

“Do you know I can scarcely believe that it is my little 
matter-of-fact Paul who is talking in this irrational way?” 

“Hedley says I am not matter-of-fact at all, only more 
straightforward and easily contented than other people. I do 


IS HEDLEY TO 


3iio 

believe that in spite of drawbacks I shall be happier than most 
girls would be under the circumstances ; nothing would make 
me miserable but being separated from them all, and never 
hearing anything about him. Oh,^^ and now her eyes were 
full of tears, “ you will not refuse to let me be happy in my 
own way ! I will be so good, Launce. I will try and follow 
all your and mother’s wishes if you will only give in to me in 
this way,” 

“Paul, you know I would help you to the fullest extent of 
my power, but Maxwell is not the man who would accept an 
income with his wife even if I could spare it, and you have 
only one hundred and fifty pounds per annum for your own 
use.” 

“No, indeed. Hedley vows that nothing would ever induce 
him to marry a woman with money, — he is very strong on that 
point.” 

“ But at least I can say as much as this, that there is no man 
whom I would more willingly welcome as a brother-in-law.” 
Then Pauline threw her arms round his neck and thanked 
him. 

“ Oh, I have not earned your thanks yet. Well, well, I must 
think over it a bit, but remember you are only twenty, Paul.” 

“I shall be one-and-twenty in March,” nodding her head 
defiantly at him. 

“And Dr. Maxwell is about five-and-thirty ; why, he will 
soon be a middle-aged man !” 

‘‘What does that matter?” she returned, demurely. “I 
prefer middle-aged men.” And then Launcelot felt she had 
the best of it. 

Launcelot felt terribly exercised in his mind during the next 
few days. His nature had always been largely tinged with 
romance, and all his sympathies were engaged in Pauline’s 
unlucky attachment. He could both comprehend, and in a 
great measure approve of, her arguments, but his common 
sense and knowledge of the world were antagonistic to her 
reasoning. 

“Depend upon it, there is hope at the bottom of all this 
seeming hopelessness,” he said to himself. “ I could detect it 
in every sentence. ‘Something will turn up, we shall not 
wait for ever,’ that is what they think, and the uncertainty 
will wear them out. I wish I could take her right away, 
make a real break, but it would make us all miserable to leave 
the Witchens. Even if I forbid her visits to Bridge House 
they must meet sometimes ; there will always be the chance 
of an encounter. Then at her age how can I expect her to 
submit blindly to my judgment? and even if her love for us 
insured perfect obedience to our wishes, would she not mope 
and pine, deprived suddenly of all her dearest interests? I 
know Madella fears this when she advises leniency.” 

Launcelot could arrive at no definite conclusion, and was 
still in the same undecided mood when he encountered Dr. 

28 


826 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


Maxwell on Overton Rise, returning from one of his weekly 
visits to Miss Thorpe. 

He was walking slowly, and appeared still languid from his 
illness ; he seemed slightly confused when he saw Launcelot, 
and hesitated perceptibly as Launcelot held out his hand. 

“ I am glad to see you are so much better, Maxwell ; but 
there is still room for improvement.” 

‘‘ Yes ; but I am all the better for my stay at Bournemouth. 
I am twice the man I was before I went down there and 
then he said, a little bitterly, I wonder you shake hands 
with me, Chudleigh, after what has happened !” 

“You mean about Pauline? Well, as you have paid your 
visit, and we seem to be going the same way, we may as well 
walk together. Of course I am very sorry about it. Max- 
well.” 

“Not half so sorry as I am. I wish I had bitten out my 
unlucky tongue before I had spoken to her.” 

“It was a great mistake, your speaking. When a man 
knows that he will be unable to marry, he should be very 
careful how he conducts himself to a woman. It seems to me 
such a pity that a young creature like Pauline should be 
drawn into such a hopeless affair.” 

“You are quite right to speak strongly ; I take all the blame 
on myself. I know her youth and innocence, and her posi- 
tion in my mother’s house ought to have been sufficient pro- 
tection ; but, Chudleigh, when a man has been at death’s door, 
and is reduced to such a pitiable state of weakness, he is 
hardly master of himself.” 

“Yes, I don’t want to be hard, and it is no good groaning 
over what cannot be mended ; as I told Pauline, there is no 
one I should like better for a brother-in-law, but there seems 
no chance of your filling the character.” 

“No, indeed; I have my head below water-mark now. 
When a man is as heavily burthened as I am, and has had a 
long illness as well, he cannot expect things to go quite 
smoothly.” 

“ Maxwell, if any temporary help — a loan— would be of the 
least assistance, you know how gladly I would offer it.” Then 
a dusky red came to the doctor’s face. 

“Not from you, I could not take it,” with some emotion. 
“No, no, things are not so bad as that ; please God I shall 
soon right myself. I only meant to convey to your mind that 
I have no hope of marrying, at least for the next ten or twelve 
years. I have made your sister understand this. There is 
nothing between us, Chudleigh ; we were friends and acquaint- 
ances, that is all.” 

“ Pauline wishes to see your mother and sisters as usuah I 
confess that I do not quite approve of this.” 

“ I hope you will change your mind. I should be more 
grieved than I am now, which is saying a good deal, if poor 
Charlotte and Brenda were to be punished for my misde- 


PAULINE. 


827 


meanors. You do not know what your sister’s visits are to 
Brenda, and the poor girl has so few pleasures in her life. 
Aunt Myra, too, has grown to depend upon her.” 

“You know, Maxwell, it is my duty to think what is best 
for Pauline’s happiness.” 

“Yes, and it is my duty to think of it too,” returned Dr. 
Maxwell, in a simple, manly way that touched Launcelot. 
“ I know your sister’s heart thoroughly, and I am quite sure 
that it would be better to let her be with my mother and sisters 
as usual ; you may depend on my keeping out of the way. I 
value my own peace of mind too much to run knowingly into 
danger ; if we meet, our meeting will be accidental. A man 
feels differently from a woman, and Pauline would not under- 
stand, but it is my own wish and intention to cross her path 
as little as possible.” 

“ I think you are right ; I should feel so in your case. Well, 
Maxwell, I will agree to what Pauline wishes, and see how 
things work. I know I can trust you both.” 

“I shall not forfeit your trust a second time. Thanks. 
Chudleigh ; you are treating me with undeserved generosity.’’ 
And then, as they had reached the hall gate, he stopped and 
wrung Launcelot’s hand, and went on alone.' 

“Poor fellow !” thought Launcelot as he retraced his steps 
a little, “he looks sadly pulled down and out of sorts, but I 
can see now why Pauline has lost her heart to him. He is 
just the sort of man a girl would fancy, — honest, straight- 
forward, and clever. Well, life’s an awful muddle, — to my- 
self and Bee and poor little Paul, — but I think Bee’s affairs 
will soon look up ; Elliott means to stick to it. Somehow it 
takes a deal of faith to get through one’s life with decent con- 
tentment,” finished Launcelot, with a sigh. 


CHAPTER XL. 

PAULINE. 

“Thou art a girl of noble nature’s crowning.” 

Hartley Coleridge. 

To a certain class of minds there is a great interest to be 
got out of watching other people’s lives ; a “ heart at leisure 
n*om itself” is sometimes content to expend its sympathy on 
others, — to stand aside, as it were, and look on. Launcelot, 
who was a little weary from the crisis through which he had 
passed, felt a certain wholesome stimulus in his watchful 
guardianship of Pauline, in his anxiety that she should not 
suffer from her own youthful zeal, or the injudicious leniency 
of her advisers ; the whole matter appeared to him in the 


828 ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 

light of a curious problem : how would the solution be worked 
out? 

Launcelot, who had always taken such cheerful views of 
life, felt himself unaccountably disheartened on Pauline^ s 
account. 

“ She has set herself an impossible task/^ he said to himself ; 

she will never be able to maintain even an average cheerful- 
ness under such depressing circumstances. Bee^s miserable 
love-affair was better than this ; its very sharpness and sever- 
ity obliged us to resort to rigorous treatment. There was no 
delay, no vacillating policy ; we are justified, therefore, on 
the score of her youth in expecting a permanent cure. ‘ Ab- 
sence makes the heart grow fonder I should be willing to 
back Captain Elliott to any amount. But with Pauline the 
case is different ; her spirits will be worn threadbare under 
these unnatural conditions ; her youth will fade under them ; 
either her love for Maxwell will be starved for want of sus- 
tenance, and they will grow apart, or she will become soured 
with the long waiting, and if they ever come together as 
sober middle-aged people their happiness will be of the hum- 
drum sort. Ten years ! why, his mother may live fifteen — 
twenty — years longer, and so may Brenda and Miss Royston ; 
it is the weakly ones who last the longest and hold most ten- 
aciously to life. Poor Maxwell ! he is a devoted son and 
brother, and Ihl be bound he never suffers this sort of thought 
to cross his mind, but I am only a looker-on. 

Pauline was not unaware of her brother's careful surveil- 
lance ; to a certain extent it touched her, but she went on her 
own way sedately, and soemed determined to contradict his 
dreary prognostications ; her sturdy, robust nature scorned to 
droop because only a very limited happiness was permitted to 
her. 

Pauline^s common sense laid no undue blame on circum- 
stances. Many girls were unhappy in their love-affairs ; more 
than one of her young companions had been unable to marry 
the man she loved. 

“ I would not change places with Isabel Somers, whose lover 
jilted her so cruelly,” she thought, “or with poor Lydia 
Meredith, who is in mourning for her fiance. As long as 
Hedley is in the world and cares for me, and I can see him 
sometimes, "F do not mean to make myself or other people 
miserable. There is too much selfishness in the world ; as 
Launoe often says, ‘ we do not realize how we act and react on 
each other, ^ and he is quite right. I am sure if Launce were 
in any trouble he would not spoil other people’s happiness by 
refusing to take interest in things, and T will try to be like 
him.” 

And Pauline kept her word nobly ; if she suffered, — and 
there were times when she must have suffered, — no one per- 
ceived the inner weariness ; in her home she was the same 
bright, energetic Pauline, who thought of every one and 


PAULINE, 329 

helped every one; whose quiet, even cheerfulness never 
failed. 

Only as time went on Launcelot^s keen eyes noticed that 
a certain staidness and dignity took the place of the fresh 
girlishness. If Pauline had been a young married woman she 
could not have held herself more aloof from the other sex, or 
have shown more indifference to any homage paid to her. 
“ Not at home to suitors^^ was plainly written in every look 
and gesture. 

Pauline^s intense loyalty for her lover convinced her that 
other men were not to be compared to him ; his intellectual 
powers, his unselfish and blameless life, his devotion to the 
sickly nousehold that owned him as master, his patience 
under trials that would have fretted most men beyond endur- 
ance, made him a hero in her eyes. “ There is no one like 
him,^^ she would say to herself after an evening spent among 
strangers. Pauline did not chafe against the orderly grooves 
in which she was compelled to move, neither did she inveigh 
ad nauseam against the hollowness of life ; she submitted 
meekly as of old to all Bee^s exactions, played tennis, practised 
accompaniments, and fatigued herself with all the new duets 
that Bee and Geoffrey wanted to get perfect ; in the season 
she put on her pretty dresses and went, under her mother’s 
wing, to the various balls, routs, kettledrums, and concerts 
for which Mrs. Chudleigh and Bee had accepted invita- 
tions. 

Pauline always went sturdily through her evening’s work ; 
she never disappointed her partners by shirking dances or 
getting up an excuse of fatigue. She talked to them in a sen- 
sible, matter-of-fact way, which they found refreshing after 
other girls’ inanities ; she was never absent-minded or wanting 
in well-bred interest ; but then at the same time she never 
seemed to understand the most delicately turned compliment, 
and no partner, however perfect, was allowed to inscribe his 
name more than three times on her card. “It is my rule,” 
she would say, simply, but at such moments she would sum- 
mon up a look of dignity. 

“She is an awfully nice girl, but you may depend upon it 
there is some one in the background ; there is no running to 
be made there,” was said by more than one who would fain 
have entered the lists against Dr. Maxwell. 

Pauline found that her chief strength lay in never evading 
a plain duty ; that in ministering to the small daily require- 
ments of others she achieved tolerable contentment for herself. 
Cheerfulness thrives on unselfishness, and one cannot begin to 
live for other people without reaping the reward of a satisfied 
conscience. 

When Pauline wrote her brother’s notes, or walked or played 
with the children, or rode with Launcelot, chatting with him 
all the time, or even when she was planning dresses with Bee’s 
dressmaker, she was doing her duty with the same heroism 

28* 


830 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


with which a soldier does his ; she was putting aside her own 
inclinations to serve others. 

No one at the Witchens ever saw Pauline idle or dreaming : 
her hands were too full for that,— so many people wanted her ; 
and then there were her visits to Bridge House and her sister- 
like services for Charlotte and Brenda. 

Those visits constituted the real interest of Pauline^s life ; it 
was at Bridge House that her love fed itself by tender minis- 
tering to Dr. Maxwell’s mother and sisters. 

No one interfered with Pauline or called her to account if 
she went too often. Launcelot soon discovered that Dr. Max- 
well was absolutely to be trusted. Never once did Pauline 
encounter him in his mother’s house. Once she heard his 
footstep pass the door, but no one took any notice of this. 
Pauline, who was reading to Aunt Myra, flushed a little and 
held her breath for a moment. Pauline hardly dared to 
acknowledge to herself how much she depended on those 
visits. At the Witchens she rarely heard Dr. Maxwell’s name 
mentioned, but in this house she could speak of him without 
constraint. Everything was freely discussed in her presence. 
The last new patient and the article he had written for the 
“Lancet,” even the book he was reading — “dear Hedley’s” 
opinions dominated that simple household, and Pauline felt 
as though she were living beside him when even his words 
were repeated to her. 

“You are one of ourselves,” Brenda would say, looking at 
the girl fondly. “ I wonder what Aunt Myra and I would do 
without you !” Oh, yes, she was one of them. Did not Char- 
lotte conflde to her that last week’s expenses had exceeded 
the sum Hedley had given her ? and had not Mrs. Maxwell 
talked to her for half an hour on the new cook’s delinquen- 
cies ? Pauline had even helped in winding the yarn that was 
intended for Hedley’s new socks, and when the flve women 
had scraped together a small sum to purchase a new easy-chair 
for Hedley’s birthday, did not Pauline go with Charlotte to 
choose it because Pussy was too busy? 

“My darling, are you sure that all this does not try you too 
much?” Mrs. Chudleigh said once when she and Pauline were 
together. Only to her mother did Pauline ever speak of these 
visits, and to her but rarely ; but now and then Mrs. Chud- 
leigh’s maternal anxiety broke down the girl’s natural reti- 
cence. “Ate you sure that it is not bad for you ?” 

Pauline put down her work and smiled in her mother’s 
anxious face. “ I wonder what has put that into your head? 
I am afraid I must have discharged my duties badly, or you 
would never have asked such a question. Are you dissatisfied 
with me, mother?” 

“ My dear, no. I tell Launcelot that you are good as gold ; 
you have never given me any trouble in your life, Pauline : 
a better girl never lived.” And here Mrs. Chudleigh showed 
signs of emotion. 


PAULINE, 


331 


“What is it, then?^^ returned Pauline, placing herself at 
her mo therms feet ; but the smile was still on her face. “ Is it 
of me and my happiness that you are thinking and as her 
mother nodded at this, she continued cheerfully: “Well, I 
can satisfy you on this point : these visits to Bridge House 
are good for me. I should not be so happy without them. T 
seem happy, do I not?^^ with a sort of wistfulness in her 
voice. 

“Yes, dear, you are always as nice as possible. I wish Bee 
had your even temperament,^^ — for Bee^s moods were still 
variable and at times stormy, — “ but,” recurring to her first 
speech, “ I think in your case I should find those visits very 
trying.” 

“ You mean because Hedley and I do not meet. Oh, but 
then I do not expect to see him, so of course there is no un- 
certainty. If I thought that at any moment he might enter 
the room, there might be some cause for restlessness, but I 
know him too well to expect such a thing.” 

“Yes, but all the same you must long to see him,” sighed 
Mrs. Chudleigh. 

“ Yes, but one has to bear that sort of pain,” replied Pauline 
quickly. “ It is not worse for me than it is for him.” 

“ I think you are both very good about it.” 

“No, but I try to be,” was the quiet reply, “ and those visits 
help me, oh so much.” 

“ How do they help you, darling?” 

“ Can^t ypu guess, mother dear? Think how sweet it is for 
me to help him even in the most trifiing way. When I do 
anything for his mother and sisters I feel it is for him I am 
doing it ; he is so fond of them all, especially of his mother.” 

“Yes, I can understand that.” 

“Of course you can understand it; were you not in love 
with father, and he with you?” Then of course, as in duty 
bound, Mrs. Chudleigh began to shed tears. “ Do you think 
it is no pleasure to me to sit there and hear them talk about 
him ? They tell me everything just as though I were engaged 
to him, — all about his patients, and his wonderful cures, and 
what people say. Sometimes I think,” dropping her voice 
almost to a whisper, “that he likes them to tell me things 
and ask my opinion. He never sends me a message, — oh, no, 
he would never think of such a thing, — but, all the same, I 
know from Charlotte^s manner when he is undecided about 
anything, and then if I give my opinion it is sure to be acted 
upon the next day ; it was so about the dining-room carpet.” 

“ My dear, it does seem such a strange position for a girl of 
your age.” 

“Oh, but I am growing older every day; even Launce 
says that he can see that.” And then, to her mother^s surprise 
and perplexity, she suddenly broke down and hid her face on 
her mother^s lap. 

Mrs. Chudleigh was much distressed. 


332 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


** What is it, darling ? I cannot bear to see you fret/* 

“No, and it is very selfish of me to let you see it, but I can- 
not help troubling sometimes to think that one must get old. 
I am quite sure — oh, quite sure in my own mind — that I shall 
be Hedley^s wife some day, but I cannot bear to think that 
when that time comes I shall be no longer pretty or young ; it 
is only for his sake that I mind and her mother had some 
difficulty in consoling her. 

Mrs. Chudleigh never mentioned these conversations to 
Launcelot. Her girl’s confidence was sacred. All her chil- 
dren brought their joys and sorrows to her ; even GeoflTrey, 
reserved and self-contained as he was, would unfold his ambi- 
tions and plans for the future to ttiat sympathizing auditor ; 
never once had she failed them. She was not a clever woman, 
but her grown-up sons listened to her simple, kindly words 
with as much reverence as though they were endowed with 
the wisdom of Solomon. 

“ Mother understands exactly what a fellow feels,” Bernard 
would say when, chafing from his brother’s well-meant re- 
bukes, he carried his boyish fumes into the mother’s room. 
The very way in which she stroked his closely-cropped head 
and the tone in which she told him not to mind Geoffrey’s 
chaff were soothing in the extreme. 

Now and then Mrs. Chudleigh would utter a little moan to 
Launcelot. “Poor dear Pauline,” she said once, “I would 
give much to see her happily settled. I wish I were a rich 
woman, Launce.” 

“Do you think you ought to say such things to me?” re- 
turned Launcelot, a little hurt at this. “ Don’t you know, 
Madella, that the half of my fortune should be yours to- 
morrow if you needed it ? But if you are thinking of Max- 
well, you might as well ask him to jump over the moon as to 
touch a penny of our money. He is scrupulous to a fault ; he 
will never consent to marry until he can support a wife.” 
And as Mrs. Chudleigh acquiesced in this opinion, there was 
nothing more to be done. 

Launcelot was always very friendly in his manner when he 
met Dr. Maxwell. The two men heartily liked and respected 
each other, and on Launcelot’s part it was a real sacrifice to 
principle to refrain from asking Dr. Maxwell to the Witchens, 
but he dared not do it. Often as he looked at Pauline in her 
pretty, girlish gowns, moving about the drawing-room of an 
evening, and listened to her fresh young voice, he was glad 
that Dr. Maxwell should be spared the sight. Pauline looked 
so good and sweet, he thought ; even the soft maturity that 
had crept over her suited her. 

But though Dr. Maxwell, in all loyalty and good faith, never 
spoke to Pauline in his mother’s house, there were times when 
they met on neutral grounds : now and then there was a chance 
encounter on the bridge, or on Overton Rise, and occasionally 
they met at the Thorpes. 


PAULINE, 


333 


Dr. Maxwell never thought it his duty to avoid Pauline on 
these occasions or to refuse the cup of tea that Joan offered 
him, and these opportunities were secretly prized by both of 
them. 

Launcelot was once present on one of these occasions. 

Joan, who was in the secret, and was a vehement partisan 
of the lovers, had been a little eager and pressing in her en- 
treaty for Dr. Maxwell to stop and refresh himself with a cup 
of tea, and he had suffered himself to be persuaded. 

Launcelot, who was standing apart with Mr. Thorpe, told 
himself that no stranger would have been deceived for a mo- 
ment. Dr. Maxwell hardly spoke to Pauline at all until the 
last minute, and then the whole world might have heard his 
words ; nevertheless the real facts of the case must have been 
plainly legible to the most casual spectator, for the girPs face 
absolutely beamed at his entrance. A look of perfect content 
came into her brown eyes, and yet she never turned her head 
to look at him until he came up to her ; while the glow in Dr. 
MaxwelPs eyes, as he caught sight of the slim figure in gray, 
was perceptible enough to Launcelot, even though he stood 
talking to his hostess and made no attempt to join Pauline. 

Just as they were about to separate chance brought them to- 
gether, and then Launcelot heard him say, — 

You were at Bridge House yesterday, Charlotte tells me ; 
I hardly expected you could pay your usual visit, it rained so 
heavily.” 

“Oh, I do not mind rain,” she returned, brightly, “and 
nothing would have induced me to disappoint Brenda ; we 
are just finishing such an interesting book.” 

“ But you must take care of yourself,” he replied, in a voice 
that must have had a tender* meaning to Pauline^s ears, for 
she blushed very prettily. “ Brenda must not be too exacting, 
you do quite enough for them all ; I do not like to think of 
you walking all the way from the Witchens in that rain.” 

“Bain never hurts me, and I had an ulster and umbrella,” 
she returned, smiling; “but if you do not think it right — ” 
and here she paused. 

“ It is not right ; please do not do it again, even for Brenda.” 
And then he took her hand and said good-by, and Pauline, 
with a heightened color, drew near her brother. 

So the winter passed, and then came spring ; and with the 
summer the whole Chudleigh family migrated to Scotland. 
Launcelot had promised his brothers to take, a shooting-lease 
for six weeks, and Mrs. Chudleigh and her two daughters and 
Dossie found accommodation at a cottage near. Freckles was 
at a school-fellow^s, and Sybil had been sent to a cousin in 
Devonshire. 

Dossie was to have gone too, but she was growing very fast 
and looked delicate, and the doctor recommended moorland 
air ; so Launcelot at once said that room must be found for 

her. 


334 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


Dossie was still faithful to her childish predilections { she 
still adored Mr. Lance, as she called him, and followed him 
as closely as his shadow. 

Launcelot had not forgotten Jack Weston all this time : his 
step-mother^s and Dossiers letters were often supplemented by 
a few lines in Launcelot^s vigorous handwriting. “I wish 
you could see Dossie now,^^ he wrote once ; “she looks like a 
little Gretchen with her transparent skin and blue eyes and 
great shining plait of hair. We all say Dossie is charming, and 
yet no one allows that she is pretty : the shape of her face is 
perfect, such a pure oval ; but for all that one dares not pre- 
dict future beauty. At present she is as thin as a lath, but 
in a year or two she will fill out. She is just the same gentle, 
affectionate little being, very sensitive, and ready to go through 
fire and water for those she loves.” 

Dossiers extreme sensibility often troubled Launcelot. She 
seemed made of finer calibre than other children, and a word 
often jarred on her susceptibilities. 

Early in the summer Launcelot had taken a severe chill 
after overheating himself, and for some days he was so seri- 
ously indisposed that his step-mother was quite alarmed. 
There was not the slightest danger, however, and after a few 
days^ feverishness and lassitude his good constitution asserted 
itself, and he shook off all traces of illness. 

One evening, as Mrs. Chudleigh was sitting with him, she 
asked him if Dossie might come in and wish him good-night. 
“For, do you know,” she continued, “that poor child has 
nearly fretted herself into a fever too, over your illness. She 
has not eaten properly, and Pauline says she lies awake for 
hours. I wish she were more like Sybil ; I do believe nothing 
would make Sybil lose her appetite.” 

Launcelot was quite willing to see his little favorite. Dossie 
came to him at once, and Mrs. Chudleigh left them together. 
The child certainly looked as though she had been fretting, 
and Launcelot gave her a little lecture. 

“You ought not to care so much about me, Dossie,” he said, 
smoothing her fair hair j “ I am not worth it. Fancy getting 

? ale and thin because I choose to indulge in a feverish attack ! 
wonder what father would say to that?” 

“What d.0 you mean?” she asked, timidly. “It is not 
wrong to care for you, Mr. Lance, is it?” 

“Not wrong, certainly,” smiling at her childishness ; “ bqt 
father would think you had grown fonder of me than of him, 
and he would not like that--” But LaunceloPs half-jesting 
rebuke was never finished, for Dossie, to his infinite discom- 
fort, covered her face with her hands and began to cry 
bitterly. 

Launcelot was much puzzled. He would not have hurt the 
child^s feelings for the world. But she had never minded 
his teasing before. 

“This will never do,” he said, kindly but firmly. “ What 


PAULINE. 


835 


will Aunt Della say if she comes back and finds you crying? 
Come, tell me what it is all about. But that was just what 
Dossie could not do. Her childish brain would have been 
perplexed to explain where the real hurt lay ; the right words 
would not have come to her. But Launcelot^s speech had 
gone deep ; Dossiers conscience was sadly alarmed. Did she 
care less for her father — her own father— because she was so 
fond of Mr. Lance? Was she at all remiss in her memory of 
that dear parent because the presence of this dearly-loved 
friend made her so happy? Dossie, in her passionate fealty 
and childish worship, found herself wounded and perplexed.. 

“There cannot be two fathers, she sobbed at last, when 
Launcelot had coaxed and petted her for some time. “ Please 
don^t say such a thing to me again, Mr. Lance. I never for- 
get father — never, never !’^ 

“ My dear little soul, of course not. Why, I was only joking, 
Dossie. Now, if you love him and me, do put away that wet 
rag,^^ regarding the drenched handkerchief with much dis- 
may, “ and talk to me like a reasonable child. Do you know, 
Dossie, that the idea has come into my mind that one of these 
days I shall go and have a look at father?” 

“You, Mr. Lance? Oh, I should lose you both I” rather 
piteously. 

“No, only for a time, — a year or so. I have often talked it 
over with your aunt Della. It is a favorite scheme of mine ; 
the voyage would be delightful ; and then I have always 
longed to see Australia. Think how charmed your father 
would be to see me.” 

“ I wish you could take me with you,” observed the child, 
wistfully. But Launcelot pointed out that this was impossi- 
ble. 

They talked about it until Mrs. Chudleigh returned and 
banished Dossie, and, as Launcelot talked, the half-forgotten 
scheme came into prominence again. 

Why should he not do it ? he thought that night and many 
times afterwards. Why should he not carry out this favorite 
project? “Perhaps not next year,” he said to himself, “but 
the year afterwards. Elliott will be home before that, and 
perhaps Bee^s affairs may be settled. Two years hence I may 
walk into Jack^s log cabin and wish him good-morning. 
Who knows?” And from that moment the Australian 
scheme never faded entirely from Launcelot^s mind. 


890 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

FIVE YEARS AFTERWARDS. 

“ Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman ?” 

Shakbspeabib. 

“ Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.” 

Goldsmith, 

One lovely May morning the green door leading from the 
terrace was thrown briskly open, and a fat, rollicking pug 
flew out with an asthmatic wheeze of joy, and commenced 
barking at a mild-looking cow tethered among the gorse. 

“For shame, Beppo ! you are old enough to know better. 
Come here this moment, sir and the young lady who had 
followed him held up a neat little gloved hand in an admon- 
ishing manner. 

This young lady had an exceedingly pretty figure, and 
walked in such a sprightly, graceful manner that an old 
clergyman sunning nimself on a bench near the Witchens 
turned round to look after her. She moved so quickly and so 
lightly that her footsteps seemed to skim the ground. She 
was dressed entirely in gray, and the only color about her was 
the gleam of soft, yellowish hair. 

The old clergyman, who had daughters and grand- daugh- 
ters of his own, looked at her benevolently as she passed. 
The dainty little figure in its mouse-like trappings seemed to 
his old-fashioned ideas the embodiment of young-ladyhood, — a 
complete personification of the good old word “gentlewoman.^^ 

Perhaps there was a touch of demure coquetry about her ; 
but what man, old or young, would find fault with that,— 
especially as there was spirit and character to be read in the 
small, oval face so nicely shaded by the gray hat ? If Dorothea 
Weston^s serious blue eyes recognized another admirer in the 
white-headed man who regarded her with such evident atten- 
tion, she was already too much accustomed to such signs of 
approval to be fiattered by it. Dorothea could add up her 
admirers by the score. All the old gentlemen of her acquaint- 
ance paidiier compliments. 

Dorothea's thoughts were not dwelling on any benevolent- 
minded old gentlemen this morning; she was enjoying the 
sweet spring sights with all her might. Brentwood common 
was delicious under the May sunshine ; a soft breeze was just 
rippling the leaves. Everything looked bright and crisp and 
fresh ; even the newly-painted benches and lamp-posts, and 
the yellow gravel outside the Witchens, added to the fresh- 
ness of the eflfect. 


FIVE YEARS AFTERWARDS. 


33 ^ 


“The world looks so clean and good-humored in May/^ 
thought Dorothea, as she tripped between the furee-bushes. 
“No dust, no dead leaves, no bare brown stalks and odds and 
ends of last yearns leavings, nothing but nice little young 
shoots and tender green everywhere. I suppose that is why 
our ancestors called it the merry month of May.^^ 

Then some deeper thought moved her as she stood still for 
a moment. “ I am glad that he said May, very glad. Every- 
thing will be looking its best, — the garden and the common, — 
and then all the rooms have had their spring cleaning and the 
new curtains are up. Aunt Della has taken such pains, the 
house looks beautiful. There is nothing more to be done now 
until we know they have arrived, and then won^t Sybil and 1 
rob the greenhouses And then she quickened her steps and 
called Beppo, and walked on in the direction of Overton Rise, 
and did not pause again until she reached an old-fashioned 
red-brick house, standing somewhat back from the road, with 
a long garden. 

Dorothea opened the gate and walked leisurely up to the 
house, taking notice of each shrub and flower-border as she 
passed, for she had an orderly mind, and little things never 
escaped her. By this she added to her stock of pleasures to 
an extent hardly credible to absent-minded people ; but to the 
end of time there will be separate generations of Eyes and No- 
eyes, after the fashion of the boy-heroes of that wise little tale. 

Dorothea did not make her way to the front door ; she turned 
aside, passing under an arch where pale climbing roses would 
be seen later, and walked rapidly round to the back. Here 
there was a pleasant lawn, with some shady old trees at the 
bottom ; and in the sunny veranda a lady was lying on an 
invalid couch, with a table beside her covered with books and 
writing-implements. A fur-lined rug covered her, and she 
wore a dark blue hood drawn over her gray hair. 

She looked up and smiled pleasantly when she saw the 
young girl. 

“ Dorothea, this is nice. I was just longing for a chat with 
some one. I have worked until my head is muddled, and 
this delicious morning makes me lazy. Now you must bring 
out a comfortable chair for yourself, for I cannot think of 
going in yet. Joan wheeled me out here because she said the 
air would do me good. This is my first morning in my sum- 
mer drawing-room.^^ 

“ I had designs of bringing you out myself, returned Doro- 
thea. She had a soft, quiet voice, and when she spoke or 
smiled she showed a charming little dimple. “It is almost 
like summer to-day ; the air is so warm, and the May smells 
so sweet on the common. I suppose Mrs. Thorpe and the 
children are out V' 

“Yes; but they will be back presently, and you are in no 
hurry, you know. Joan left word that you were to be sure to 
stay. Now, what am I thinking about? I have never even 

P ur 29 


838 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


wished you happy returns of the day ; I must give you an 
other kiss, and there is my trifling gift which you must take 
with an old friend^s love.^^ 

“How kind, how very kind returned the girl, her eyes 
sparkling at the sight of the book, a beautifully-bound edition 
of Mrs. Browning^s poems. “You ought not to have given 
me anything. Miss Thorpe ; I have had so many presents al- 
ready. I must tell you about them all, and I have brought 
Aunt Delians to show'you.’^ And after enumerating the cata- 
logue, she displayed to her friend^s admiring eyes a massive 
gold bracelet with a pearl clasp. 

“ How beautiful ! That is for to-night, of course. Well, 
many girls of eighteen are not so lucky. I suppose you and 
Sybil are very excited at the idea of your first ball ; no, I beg 
SybiPs pardon, of course she came out last year ; how stupid 
I am getting 

“I don^t feel excited,^^ returned Dorothea, in the quiet 
manner that seemed habitual to her. “I am fond of dancing, 
but I do not go into raptures as Sybil does. She will look 
very well to-night ; she is to wear cream satin, and Pauline 
has lent her her Venetian necklace, and she will have a lovely 
spray of orchids. Sybil is so tall that she can carry oflT any- 
thing. 

“ Yes, and she will look very handsome. Sybil is a regular 
brunette beauty. What is your dress, Dorothea 

“ White, of course. A debutante must always wear white, as 
Hilda says,^^ returned Dorothea, with a certain droll inflection 
of voice as though she knew she was saying something naughty. 

“ Hilda ! that is Mrs. Geoffrey. Well, I suppose she knows 
all about it.^^ And the twinkle in Miss Thorpe^s eyes corre- 
sponded to Dorothea's voice. “ You could not have a better 
adviser, I am sure, on all matters of dress and etiquette. 

“So Aunt Della thinks, for she consults her about every- 
thing. Now don^t smile, of course Sybil and I are dreadfully 
naughty about Hilda. She is really very nice and kind and 
sensible, but it is only her excessive propriety that makes ub 
laugh. She is so afraid, and so is Geoffrey, that Sybil and I 
are just the least bit inclined to be unconventional— uncon- 
ventionality is such a heinous sin in their eyes.^^ 

“ She is rather proper, certainly. I have only seen her that 
once when Geoffrey brought her ; I thought her a very pretty 
young woman, and rather nice in her manners, and certainly 
Geoffrey seemed proud and happy enough. 

“ Yes ; and they exactly suit each other, and every one says 
he has an admirable wife. She is certainly very fond of him 
and of us all.^^ 

“ Well, it was a very good match; Of course Geoffrey is a 
rising man, but, all the same, the only daughter of a baronet 
with a nice little fortune of ner own would be considered a 
catch by most young barristers • but Geoffrey has plenty of 
brains, as Ivan says ; he will make his mark one day.^^ 


FIVE YEARS AFTERWARDS, 


539 


“Bernard will do well for himself, too.^^ 

“ Oh, to be sure. I had forgotten Bernard ; that was the 
last new excitement in the Chudleigh family. Bernardos en- 
gagement has thrown Bee^s son and heir into the shade, 
though one cannot soon forget Mrs. Chudleigh^s delight ai 
being a real live grandmother.^^ 

“No, we were all so pleased about that. Dear Bee! how 
happy she is I and we all like Gordon so much ; Aunt Della 
is devoted to him. Don^t you recollect how jealous Mr. Lance 
pretended to be, and how he declared that Captain Elliott^s 
opinions had more weight with Aunt Della than his?” 

“ Oh, that was only his fun. I never saw any one better 
pleased than Mr. Chudleigh when he heard that Bee had 
made up her mind to accept Captain Elliott. I am so glad for 
all your sakes that Bee will not have to go to India after all 
this year. It would be too hard for Mrs. Chudleigh to part 
with her grandson. And now Bernard is engaged. I wonder 
what Mr. Chudleigh will say to that?” 

“ Aunt Della thinks he will be pleased. Elsie is such a dear 
little thing ! We are quite fond of her already. Geoffrey and 
Hilda seem satisfied about it ; they think it is a good thing for 
Bernard to be so closely connected with his chief. He is pretty 
sure of getting the next vacant mastership. But Geoffrey 
says they must not think of marrying yet. He will get a 
house by and by, and then he will be sure of a certain income.” 

“I suppose Miss Carruthers will have some money of her 
own ?” 

“Very little. There are several daughters, and Elsie is the 
youngest, and Dr. Carruthers is not a rich man. Oh, they 
will do well enough, Geoffrey says, if only Bernard will not 
hurry on things. But he is so dreadfully in love that he will 
hardly listen to Geoffrey.” 

“ Well, his eldest brother may have more influence. By 
the bye, Dorothea, I suppose there is no more news of the 
travellers ?” 

“No ; we cannot expect news. But Geoffrey says that we 
may have a telegram announcing the ship^s arrival at any 
time, and then a few hours will bring them to the Witchens. 
Just fancy if the telegram come to-morrow, or the next day ! 
I shall certainly run down with it to Spring Mead before an 
hour is over.” 

“ Thank you, my dear I you are always so thoughtful. You 
never leave me out in the "cold. Few invalids have so much 
to interest them.” 

“Yes, but Mr. Lance left you in my charge,” answered 
Dorothea, softly. “ Do you remember the morning when he 
came to say good-by to you, and brought me with him, and 
how he said that Pauline was so heavily burdened with the 
Bridge House affairs that he could not lay a feather^s weight 
more on her, but that he hoped I should consider you mj 
chief mission after Aunt Della ? — those were his very words.'^ 


$40 


ONLr THE GOVERNESS. 


“ Yes, I remember/^ returned Miss Thorpe, and her strong, 
sensible face softened visibly as her eyes rested on the girl. 
But she had never been a demonstrative woman, and affec- 
tionate phrases did not come easily to her. Dorothea did not 
misunderstand her: she knew that the friendship between them 
was very real and deep. Dorothea's fine delicacy of perception 
and syrnpathetic nature had drawn them together. As a child 
Rachel Thorpe had repelled her ; as a woman she admired 
and loved her, — all the more that years of suflering had 
ripened Rachel^s finer qualities. 

If Miss Thorpe had opened her lips she would have said 
that Dorothea had nobly fulfilled her mission during those 
eighteen months. Many an hour of physical depression and 
restlessness had been soothed by the girl’s ready tact ; her 
quiet, sweet-toned voice never iarred on Rachel’s nerves. She 
could bear to listen to her reading when a few sentences from 
Joan would have distressed her. Joan’s excessive vitality, 
her superabundant energy, fatigued the invalid, even if the 
busy wife and mother could have spared the time to sit inac- 
tive in Rachel’s room ; dearly as Rachel loved her for her own 
and Ivan’s sake, their natures were too dissimilj^r to prevent 
friction. Now and then a dry, caustic remark on Rachel’s 
part brought the old flash to Joan’s eyes and the impatient 
answer to her lips. 

Joan was always penitent, and accused herself of cruelty in 
no measured terms when she saw the wearv look on Rachel’s 
pale face after one of these little fracases. ‘‘ What a wretch I 
am, darling !” she would say, with a remorseful kiss. “Scold 
me, please,— scold me, and I will not say a word.” But 
Rachel, with much magnanimity, never availed herself of 
this permission. It was only Joan’s hot Irish blood; she 
would grow older and wiser one day. 

Joan would go sadly away and bemoan herslf to Ivan ; her 
husband’s sympathy was the refuge that never failed her. 
Ivan was never too busy or too worried to listen to her con- 
fessions. “ Never mind, dear ; you will do better by and by,” 
he would say, stroking the ruddy brown hair. “ Rachel is a 
little crotchety, but she has so much to suffer, poor thing !” 

“Yes, and I ought to have remembered that; but it wa* 
my horrid temper. No, I do not deserve to be petted, Ivan 
you are much too good to me.” But Mr. Thorpe never took 
any notice-^ this. He was still Joan’s lover as well as her 
husband, and in his heart he thought Rachel was the one to 
blame. 

Joan’s life was brimful of interest now, with three children 
in the nursery. Launcelot’s godson was a fine sturdy boy of 
six, with his mother’s eyes ; and next to him was a fair-haired 
Ronald ; Gwendoline, or Baby Gwen as she was called, was a 
soft, round creature, her father’s pet. 

Tney were all beautiful children, but Ronald was the only 
one who resembled his father in features. They were all 


FIVE YEARS AFTERWARDS, 


841 


merry, high-spirited creatures, with Joanns vivacity and im- 
pulsive ways,- ^‘my Irish rogues, as Mr. Thorpe sometimes 
called them, — but he would not have had them like himself 
for the world. No father was ever prouder of his boys than 
he ; in spite of all Aunt RachePs rebukes, he could scarcely 
bear to restrain their wild spirits. 

Boys will be boys^^ was his favorite speech, until it became 
a proverb in the house. But for all that he took care that he 
should be obeyed, and the little lads were not slow in learning 
this lesson. 

Father told us not^^ was often overheard in the nursery. 

“Father^s a duck,^^ put in Gwen, as she came waddling 
across the floor on her fat little legs, with a lop-eared rabbit 
in her arms, “ and Gwenny loves him muchly.” 

“So he is, my pet!” cried Joan, snatching up her little 
daughter and nearly smothering her with kisses. “There is 
no one in the world like father, and mother loves him muchly 
too.” 

The conversation had languished for a few minutes after 
Dorothea's little speech. Rachel was thinking of those eigh- 
teen months and the changes they had brought, but Dorothea, 
who was in holiday mood, had sent her thoughts skimming 
across the ocean ; in a moment they had boarded the “ Ata- 
lanta ;” there w^ere two figures there that she knew, Mr. Lance 
and a big, brown-bearded man with broad shoulders and a 
stoop in them. Miss Thorpe imagined that the girl was 
thinking of her first ball, and smiled benevolently at her rapt 
expression. 

“I wish Pauline were going too,” she said, following out 
this idea, and Dorothea slightly started. 

“ Oh, you are thinking of the ball. But Pauline never cared 
for them ; she declares she is too old for dancing now, but that 
is such nonsense ; she is only seven-and-twenty, and as pretty 
as ever,—- prettier, I think.” 

“Yes, Pauline is one of those people who will wear well, 
but she is not looking her best just now. Poor Mrs. MaxwelPs 
illness is such a grief to her ; the poor thing suffers so much 
that her death will be a merciful release. There is absolutely 
no hope ; Dr. Maxwell told me so himself. He was here yes- 
terday ; he looked dreadfully ill, poor fellow !” 

“N'o wonder, with all his hard work, and, as Pauline says, 
he is devoted to his mother. And then it is such a pity that 
poor Prissy ^s marriage should be put ofi* ; Major Drummond 
cannot wait for her later than August.” 

“Well, then, they must get married quietly one morning. 
Prissy has her outfit ready, and there need be no fuss ; but 
from what Dr. Maxwell said yesterday I can see that he does 
not expect that his mother will last long, — it may be over 
sooner than we think.” 

“ I hope so, for Charlotte^s sake ; she is growing thinner 
every day, but for Pauline she would have broken down long 

29 * 


342 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


ago. It does seem so sad ; this time last year they lost. Miss 
Boyston ; no one expected that in the least.” 

“No, indeed, poor Aunt Myra, — ‘the little blind saint,’ as 
Joan always called her. I think Brenda felt that most,— 
Miss Boyston was her chief companion.” 

“ And now Mrs. Maxwell is dying, and poor Prissy is obliged 
to put aside all her bridal finery. Prissy’s engagement was 
the one bit of brightness in Bridge House. Don’t you recollect 
how happy Dr. Maxwell looked when you congratulated him^ 
He was thinking of something else, I believe.” 

“ Yes, I was sure from his manner that Pauline was in his 
thoughts. With Prissy and poor Miss Boyston off his hands, 
there did seem more probability of his taking a wife. Well, 
Pauline will have to comfort him for his mother’s loss. Mrs. 
Chudleigh tells me that she takes her full share of nursing, 
even the night-work.” 

“ Oh, yes, she goes every day. Poor Mrs. Maxwell never 
seems easy if Pauline be missing ; so Aunt Della feels she must 
spare her.” 

“ True, and she has you and Sybil, so she is not daughterless, 
but it is very trying for Pauline and to this Dorothea smiled 
assent. Then she looked at her watch, and, with an exclama- 
tion at the lateness of the hour, said that she must go in search 
of Mrs. Thorpe, and Bachel made no effort to detain her. 

“We have had a nice long talk, and I know you will come 
soon and tell me all about your conquests,” she returned, with 
a warm kiss. “Now I will rest until luncheon, if you will 
ring for Merton to wheel me into the sitting-room,” but as 
Bachel closed her eyes, it was of Pauline, not of Dorothea, 
that she was thinking. 

And at that moment Pauline was kneeling down beside the 
invalid, with a thin, shadowy hand clasped in hers, and there 
were tears in her eyes as she listened to her friend’s feeble 
utterances. 

“You will promise me, Pauline ?” 

“ I do not understand, — what am I to promise you, dear?” 

“That you will not keep Hedley waiting long after I am 
gone. He will need his wife to comfort him for his mother’s 
loss.” 

“If he need me, he must tell me so,” almost whispered 
Pauling but her tears dropped fast. “ You may be sure I shall 
do all I can^for him, but, dear Mrs. Maxwell, he will be too 
heavy-hearted to think of marrying then, surely,— it will be 
better to wait a little longer.” 

“And you have waited six years now? Oh, Pauline, I 
know how good you have been to my boy. You have just 
waited and waited, and been like an angel in the house, and 
no one has ever heard a complaint from your lips ; you have 
been like a daughter to me and my poor Myra, and a sister to 
Brenda. Oh, no wonder Hedley loves you as he does, that he 
thinks there is no girl in the world to compare with you.” 


FIVE FEARS AFTERWARDS. 


343 


This praise was very sweet to Pauline, though she had no 
answer to make to it. Her patient devotion was reaping its 
reward now. No one knew better than herself what she was 
to Hedley, and though for six long years no word of love had 
crossed his lips, she knew that she was still his darling. 

Side by side they had worked together with the wall of fate 
dividing them, but to love like theirs there seemed no dividing 
boundary. For months they might not have interchanged a 
word, and yet there seemed no break in their communion. ‘‘ It 
is for life,^^ Pauline had said to him when she had acknowledged 
her love, and she had never taken back those words. Of late, 
since Mrs. MaxwelPs illness, there had been much to solace 
^ Pauline. The embargo tacitly pronounced upon their inter- 
course had been removed by the very force of circumstances ; 
Hedley could not be kept away from his mother^s sick-room, 
and Pauline, weary from her night^s watching, often felt the 
restorative power of Hedley ^s grateful glance and smile. 

They had few opportunities for conversation even then. 
Mrs. MaxwelPs sad sufferings prevented much talk, but Pau- 
line was quite content to sit silent and watch the mother and 
son together. 

Sometimes Mrs. Maxwell would appeal to her : 

“Do you see how gray my boy is getting she said once, 
when Hedley had come up to her bedside for a moment. 

Pauline blushed at this direct speech, but Dr. Maxwell 
answered for her : 

“ Boy, indeed ! Will you ever realize that I am forty-two, 
mother ? A man has a right to be gray at that age. Perhaps 
Pauline thinks it an improvement ; I am sure I hope so,^^ 
with a wistful look at the fair face that was even dearer to him 
than ever. 

Pauline looked up and their eyes met. “ What does it mat- 
ter, Hedley Pauline^s seemed to say, and he went away 
satisfied. 

It was always like this, fond looks and a quiet speech or 
two, but to Pauline they gilded those weary hours of sick- 
ness ; it made her happy to know that Hedley^s careworn face 
lighted up with pleased recognition at the sight of her ; she 
knew that she was taking her place openly as his fianc^e^ 
though no words to that effect had passed between them. 
That very morning Hedley joined them almost before his 
mother had ended her speech, and Mrs. Maxwell, with the 
tenacity of an invalid, repeated her words, much to Pauline^s 
distress. 

“ My «lear son, I have been speaking to Pauline. I cannot 
last much longer, only a few days. Dr. Phillips thinks, and 
when I am gone I want Pauline to come here in my place. 

“She will come all in good time, mother, but we will not 
talk of it now,^^ and Dr. MaxwelPs face worked with pain. 
His mother seemed feebler during the last few hours. 

* Yes, but I like to talk of it. I am always thinking about 


S44 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


it, am I not, Pauline? There will be plenty of room then, 
when Myra and I and Prissy are gone, and there will be 
money enough too, eh, Hedley?” 

“ I don^t know ; I suppose so, mother. But Pauline could 
bear this no longer ; the muffled pain in Hedley^s voice was 
not to be resisted. 

“ Do not talk to him now, dear. He cannot bear it ; he only 
wants to think of his mother now ; there will be time enough 
for other things by and by but as Pauline stepped back, 
pale from her little protest, Dr. Maxwell drew her to him for 
a moment, and kissed her forehead. 

“ God bless you, my darling ! Yes, I can only think of my 
mother now, but one day I shall hope to make up to you for 
all your goodness to us ail and here he broke down, as strong 
men are not ashamed to break down beside the dying beds of 
the mothers who bore them. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

‘THIS IS NOT MY LITTLE GIRL 

“ This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, 

May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.” 

Shakespeare. 


“And will I see his face again. 

And will I hear him speak? 

I’m downright dizzy wf the thought. 

In truth I’m like to greet.”— W. J. Mickle. 


Dorothea went in search of Joan, and found her in her 
pretty drawing-room busily engaged in making a smock for 
baby Gwen, who was playing with her doll at her feet. 

Joan greeted her with her usual beaming smile which 
always conveyed such a hearty welcome, and Gwen held up 
her round chubby face for a kiss. 

“Go is Dottie,” she observed, with extreme satisfaction, 
pointing her small finger at her. 

Joan had developed into a noble-looking woman. She had 
CTown a little stouter, and had a matronly air that became 
ner well, and^ it was still the same charming face, full of life 
and vivacity, though the Irish gray eyes had a far softer 
expression. 

“ I would not interrupt you and Rachel,” she said, as Doro- 
thea lifted Gwen into her lap and sat down beside her, “ you 
seemed talking so cosily ; and Rachel is like most invalids, 
she never thinks three is a comfortable number. So I have 
saved my congratulations until now. Look, this is my little 
gift, dear, — ours, I should say, for Ivan insisted on being in- 
cluded, he thinks so much of your kindness to poor Rachel. 


“ THIS IS NOT MY LITTLE OIRLT 


345 


And then we always look upon you as belonging somehow tc 
Mr. Chudleigh, and you know he and Ivan are like brothers.^* 

“Yes, I know, and it is very good of Mr. Thorpe,” but 
Dorothea hardly knew why she blushed over Joanns inno- 
cently-meant speech ; she had always the same feeling herself, 
as though in some way she belonged to Mr. Lance. Joanns 
selection was a large photograph of herself and her children 
in a beautifully-carved frame, and Dorothea, who doted on 
the children, expressed great delight and admiration. 

“Every one is far too kind to me ! I never had so many 
presents before and then the bracelet was brought out, and 
the ball toilette discussed with due gravity, for Joan loved 
pretty things as much as ever, and she evinced quite a child- 
ish curiosity on the subject, which amused Dorothea. 

“ And I suppose you are counting the days until your father 
arrives?” observed Joan, when this topic had been exhausted. 
“Dear, dear, I remember as though it were yesterday, that 
afternoon when you sat in the school-room and told me about 
him. What an old-fashioned little creature you looked in 
your hood-bonnet, and how you used to fret about him ! I had 
to take you into my bed often and cuddle you to sleep as I do 
Gwen, because you were so miserable.” 

“I know you were very kind to me,” returned Dorothea, 
with a grateful recollection of her young governess. “Oh, 
yes, I can hardly sleep sometimes for thinking how father 
will look. I never imagined for a moment that Mr. Lance 
would bring him back with him. That is why he has stayed 
so long away, that they might come back together.” 

“It is another of Mr. Chudleigh^s good deeds, but I shall 
be glad for Ivan’s sake when he returns, he does miss him so !” 

“Not more than we do,” returned Dorothea, with a sigh. 
“Aunt Della and I always say the Witchens is a different 
place without Mr. Lance. Aunt Della tried not to fret over 
the delay, but she says she shall never have the courage to let 
him go away again. She will have it that she is getting 
old, but I cannot see a bit of difference in her, neither can 
Pauline.” 

“Of course not. She is as lovely as ever,” replied Joan, 
briskly. “ What do you think, Dorothea? I had a long letter 
from Fred this morning, enclosing one of his new photos. 
He tells me that he has quite made up his mind to take holy 
orders, and that he has told his brother so. I don’t know 
why I felt surprised, but somehow I cannot fancy Fred a 
clergyman,” and here Joan began to laugh as she hunted in 
her workbox for the photo. 

Fred, or Freckles, as his brothers still called him, had been 
a good-looking, melancholy-eyed lad, and had now become 
a very handsome young man, only there was still the same 
pathetic look of sadness in his eyes. As Dorothea took the 
photograph in her hand she began to laugh too. 

“ Fred is such an absurd boy,” she said, by way of explana- 


346 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


tion. “ Bernard is quite right when he declares that Fred 
always gives people the idea that his affections have been 
blighted. Don^t you recollect the old lady who fell in love 
with him in the railway carriage, and how she told Fred that 
she had boys of her own, and begged him to keep his feet 
and chest warm, young men were so imprudent? She evi- 
dently thought Fred was in the first stage of decline. 

“ Oh, yes, I think I do remember something about it.^^ 
know Fredas answer surprised her, for he told her that 
he found nothing so warming as a good spell of the dumb- 
bells after a cold bath, or a mile and a half's run before din- 
ner, all in that lackadaisical voice of his, and his eyes closing 
as though he could hardly prop up his eyelids ‘for sheer 
weakness.' " 

“ Well, I always said Fred was the nicest boy in the world," 
returned Joan, reverting to her old opinion, “and Ivan says 
that in spite of his nonsense he is as steady a fellow as he 
knows." 

“So he is, and thoroughly in earnest, too. Why, he has 
been staying at the Oxford House this Easter instead of com- 
ing home ; he has taken up work at the East End, and means 
to go on with it. Oh, Fred is all right." 

“ My dear, he is a Chudleigh," replied Joan, who had a de- 
vout belief in the Chudleigh perfection ; and then Dorothea 
got up and said that she must go, and Joan and Gwen accom- 
panied her to the door. 

“ I wish I could see her dressed for her ball this evening," 
thought Joan, as she carried Gwen back into the house. 
“Ivan will have it that she is not a bit pretty, but I expect 
that she will look lovely to-night. There is something very 
taking about her, — fetching, as Bernard calls it. Who ever 
would have thought that Dossie would have turned out so 
well? she was such a washed-out little creature." 

Sybil would have indorsed this opinion. When Dorothea 
entered her room that evening, the stately-looking young bru- 
nette in her gleaming satin gave a little exclamation of sur- 
prise at the sight of the dainty figure before her. 

“ Oh, Dossie, you do look nice ! Doesn't she look nice, Pau- 
line?" and poor tired Pauline, who had added the duties of 
lady's maid to her handsome young sister out of pure benevo- 
lence and love of service, turned round with an approving 
smile. 

“ Oh, I think you are quite lovely," went on Sybil, bundling 
up her train without ceremony and walking round her cousin. 
“ Our chaperon Hilda will be charmed, — ‘ Really, our debutante 
looks exceedingly well, Geoffrey,' "—pursing up her lips and 
bending her long neck, in evident mimicry of her sister-in-law ; 
and Pauline chimed in gently, — 

“Yes, Dossie dear, you do look just as I like to see you." 

Dorothea gave a little satisfied glance at herself in the cheval 
glass, and shook out the folds of her white gown sedately. At 


“ THIS IS NOT MY LITTLE GIRLV 


347 


eighteen one likes to be admired, and Dorothea had her little 
vanities like other girls. As for Pauline, she thought that she 
had never seen anything prettier. Dorothea looked so sweet 
and girlish ; the lilies of the valley just suited her style, and 
the little pearl necklace hardly showed against the white round 
throat. Dorothea's fair hair was drawn to the top of her head, 
which was covered with soft golden plaits, and fastened with 
pearl pins. Her complexion was always pale, but to-night 
there was a faint tinge of color that was very becoming, and 
her blue eyes were shining with suppressed excitement. 

“Some one is sure to fall in love with you to-night, went 
on Sybil as she arranged her orchids. “ Don^t you know what 
the old song says ? ‘ Tall women are admired and little ones 
beloved.^ 

“ Oh, but I am not little,^^ protested Dorothea, in an injured 
voice, for this was a sore point with her ; “ other people think 
I am quite tall, except you, Sybil.” 

“Never mind, Dossie dear,” returned Sybil, mischievously ; 
“when he comes he will think you just the right height.” 
But Dorothea refused to hear any more : she caught up her 
white draperies and made Sybil a little courtesy, and retreated 
from the room in stately fashion, quite ignoring SybiPs mock- 
ing laugh. 

The walls at the Witchens were thick. The two girls shut 
within their rooms heard nothing of the commotion and 
bustle down-stairs, — a cab driving into the front court, fol- 
lowed by Mrs. Geotfrey^s brougham ; doors opening and shut- 
ting, luggage being deposited in the hall, Geoffrey ^s voice 
raised in exclamation ; then a little cry as Mrs. Chudleigh 
appears on the scene ; questions, embraces, a general hubbub, 
with Mrs. Geoffrey as onlooker. “ Dear, dear, this is very un- 
fortunate, extremely ill-timed !” she observes, but no one heeds 
her. Geoffrey is eagerly assisting his brother to relieve him- 
self of his wraps. Mrs. Chudleigh, with tearful eyes, is look- 
ing first at Jack and then at Launcelot ; by and by she recol- 
lects the children, and somebody, probably Mrs. Geoffrey^ 
proposes sending for Pauline. 

It was at this moment that Dorothea made her appearance. 
The door opened, every one looked round, some one — probably 
Mrs. Geoffrey again — said, “ Come in, Dorothea.” But Launce- 
lot looked in mute astonishment on the fairy vision on the 
threshold. Was this Dossie, this pretty young girl with piled- 
up golden hair and white rounded arms? Could Dossie have 
developed into this bewitching young lady ? But his surprise 
was no match for Jack^s as he stood tugging at his rough 
beard and muttering, “ This is not my little girl Dossie !” 

Dorothea stood for a moment motionless with intense sur- 
prise ; there was a mist before her eyes, and she could see 
nothing. It seemed to clear at the sound of Jack^s voice. 

“Father! father! don^t you know me?” she said, running 
to him and throwing herself in his arms. Mrs. Geoffrey 


848 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


groaned as she saw that close embrace ; the lilies of the valley 
would all be crushed, she thought, in Jack^s mighty grip. 
She groaned still more as she heard Dorothea's faint sob, — she 
was actually crying ; her eyes would be red. What a humili- 
ation for her, Mrs. Geoffrey Chudleigh, to introduce a red-eyed, 
crumpled debutante ! 

But, unmindful of the crushed lilies, Dorothea was clinging 
to her father as though only her sense of touch could assure 
her that this was no dream. Was it, could it really be her 
own father ? Jack need not question his child^s identity, when 
her fresh young lips were giving such eager kisses. 

“ I suppose my turn will come by and by,’^ observes Launce- 
lot presently, and Dorothea starts and looks round in search 
of the well-known face. Launcelot, who is looking a little 
older, a little more bronzed, and with a suspicion of gray in 
his dark hair, smiles kindly at her. 

Oh, I did not mean to be rude, Mr. Lance,” she said, hold- 
ing out her hand to him ; and Launcelot, who has never been 
greeted in this way before, but who acknowledges the nice 
distinction, lifts Dorothea's hand to his lips in courtly fashion, 
and then pats it before he lays it down. 

“And this is my little girl,” observes Jack, holding her at 
arm's length as she went back to him. “Somehow I can't 
believe it, Dossie ; but there is a look in your face that reminds 
me of Pen. Pen never went to balls. I don't think I ever 
saw her in a white gown in my life.” 

“Father, how can you talk as though you expected to find 
me still the same little girl !” protested Dorothea. “ You have 
been away eight years, and of course I am a grown-up young 
lady now [“ Grown up, indeed,” muttered Launcelot]. Now 
let me look at .you,” and Dorothea dropped his hands and 
stepped back a few paces to contemplate him. 

Jack bore the ordeal rather uneasily. He had an idea that 
he must look rather a rough customer to this dainty little 
creature, for every one — even Jack and Launcelot — persisted 
that Dorothea was little, which was not the truth. 

Jack was older certainly. His hair and golden-brown beard 
were streaked with gray, and there were deep lines on his 
handsome face ; his broad shoulders had not lost their stoop, 
but there was a diflerent stamp about him, a more marked 
individually. One felt instinctively on looking at him that 
this was ^different Jack Weston from the man “who had 
been no one's enemy but his own.” 

Dorothea's eyes softened as she looked at him ; her nice 
perception told her that she might be proud as well as fond 
of her father. Perhaps he might not be the hero her childish 
fancy depicted him, but he was an honest man who had done 
his work in the world, who had labored all these years to 
make a home for his little girl. He looked older, yes, and 
tired, but at least they could both feel he had earned his rest. 

“ Well, are you satisfied with him, Dorothea?” and Launco- 


“Tms' IS NOT MI LITTLE OIELP* 


549 


lot who had been looking on at this scene with kind, sympa- 
thetic eyes, moved a little nearer to them. He had planned 
and plotted for months to effect this reunion ; he had had his 
difficulties, but perseverance had triumphed, and as he looked 
at the girPs radiant face he felt himself amply rewarded. 

Dorothea gave him a shy, startled look. He had never called 
her by that name before, but somehow she liked it. It was 
Hilda and Miss Rachel who always addressed her in that 
way, and latterly the others had followed their example. 
‘‘Dossie^’ was felt to be too childish. Perhaps Laun(ielot 
realized instinctively the child Dossie was gone, — this was a 
new Dorothea whose acquaintance he had to make. 

“Are you satisfied he asked, and Dorothea turned rouud 
with a beaming look. 

“He is just the same,^^ she said, triumphantly, “only he 
looks nicer somehow. Father, do you know you are so big 
that you make me feel quite a little girl still ? What a pity 
your beard has grown gray ! But, after all, I do not mind ; 
and as for those creases, indicating the lines with her soft 
fingers, “w'e must smooth them out. You have worked too 
hard, and you have had no one to take care of you, or to 
talk to you and make you laugh, but it will be different now.^^ 

“Yes, indeed, I shall have my little girl to look after me,^^ 
murmured Jack, but his deep voice trembled a little as though 
he felt his cup was filled to the brim. And then the door 
opened again, and this time it was a young princess who 
stood on the threshold, with a tired, sweet-faced Cinderella 
behind her; and then again there was a little hubbub, — 
every one speaking at once ; more embraces ; a few earnest 
words between the brother and sister; curious looks at the 
big bearded colonist from Princess Sybil, and last, but not 
least, an anxious protest from Mrs. Geoflfeey. 

Mrs. Geoffrey was, as Miss Thorpe had described her, a very 
pretty young woman. She had an exquisitely fair skin and 
an extremely graceful figure, and her manners were quiet and 
ladylike, though at times she would assert herself with a 
decision that somewhat alarmed her mother-in-law. 

Mrs. Chudleigh looked alarmed now. Hilda had crossed 
the room and spoken to her, and there was a troubled expres- 
sion on the mother^s placid face, which was still as lovely as 
ever to her children's eyes. 

“Oh, my dear, do you think so?^^ she said, helplessly. 
“ Dossie, my darling, Hilda says that she cannot possibly wait 
any longer, and that you and Sybil will lose all the best 
dances. 

“What do you mean, Aunt Della exclaimed Dorothea, 
excitedly. “ Hilda cannot think that I can leave my father I 
What does it matter about the dances? Do you think I should 
give a thought to the grandest ball in the world, when I 
have not seen my own father for eight years 

“ Geoffrey, returned his wife, in a tone of calm exaspera 

30 


550 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


tion he already knew well, ‘‘perhaps you will speak to your 
cousin ; there are duties that We owe to society, engagements 
that it is only honorable to fulfil. If it were any other occa- 
sion, — but Dorothea is a d^butante^ and such an opportunity 
to make her appearance at Lady Mervyn^s house may never 
occur again. I am sure, if Mr. Weston only realized the im- 
portance of the occasion, he would be the first to sacrifice his 
daughter's company for a few hours. 

Mrs. Geoffrey seldom made such a long speech. She was a 
woman of few words, and governed her husband by a judi- 
cious tact that allowed him to think himself master, but her 
smooth patience was ruffled by what she chose to consider 
Dorothea's obstinacy. 

“ I cannot help it, Hilda ; I am very sorry, but Sybil must 
go without me,^^ she began, but Launcelot interposed. He 
had been regarding his new sister-in-law critically, and had 
just made up his mind that in spite of her mild suavity Mrs. 
Geoffrey had a will of her own ; not that he disliked the look 
of her, — he was sure that she would be even-tempered and 
reasonable in her demands, and a very pleasant person with 
whom to live on the whole, — but he could see that she was 
seriously disturbed, and that Geoffrey was getting uneasy. 

“Dorothea,” he said, gently, “I think Mrs. Geoflrey is 
right. There are certain duties one owes to society ; we ought 
not to forego our engagements or disappoint people if we can 
help it. It seems to me that my sister-in-law is putting her- 
self to considerable inconvenience to act as your chaperon. 
I am sure your father will gladly spare you for a few hours. 
If you have not seen him for eight years, Madella has not 
seen her brother for eighteen ; will you not trust him to us ? 
I will undertake to keep him safe until you turn up at break- 
fast-time.” 

“ Yes, my darling, he is quite right,” whispered Jack ; “go 
with your friends, Dossie, and I will talk to Della.” 

Dorothea's blue eyes grew very wide and piteous. “ Oh 
must I go, Mr. Lance?” she asked, “is it really my duty?^ 
and as Launcelot only held out his hand by way of an an- 
swer, she kissed her father without another word, and suf- 
fered Launcelot to lead her away, while Mrs. Geoffrey fol- 
lowed on her husband^s arm all smiles and good-humor. 

But as Launcelot stooped to put the white furred cloak over 
Dorothea^ shoulders he looked into her eyes for a moment. 
“You are very good and reasonable,” he said, quietly. “ I am 
very pleased with you, Dorothea ;” and then aloud, “ Yqu 
will not stay very late, Geoffrey, will you?” but his wife 
answered for him. 

“No, indeed,” she said, very graciously. “Dorothea shall 
decide how long she wishes to stay ; she must show herself 
and go through a few dances, but she need not do more than 
that. Of course SybiPs pleasure will be spoiled, but—” 

“Oh, never mind me,^' returned Sybil, briskly. “ I have 


^^THIS IS NOT MY LITTLE OIRLr 861 

been to too many balls to fret over the loss of one, and to- 
night it Is for Dossie to decide, for even Sybil was touched 
by her cousin^s gentle submission and sad, disappointed face. 

How is she to enjoy herself when she is longing to be with 
Uncle Jack?'' 

“ Promise me you will enjoy yourself, Dorothea," persisted 
Launcelot, leaning forward into the carriage and touching the 
girl's hand. “Don't make me sorry that we came to-night. 
It was all my fault, for Jack wanted to telegraph and wait for 
to-morrow." 

“Yes, yes, I will try to enjoy it, if only to please Hilda," 
she returned ; but her hand felt a little cold in his kind clasp. 
How could he know that the girl was recalling another scene ! 
As he led her away she remembered with a shudder, even 
now, how she had clung with all her childish force to her 
father's neck, and how firmly Mr. Lance had unloosened her 
little hands and had carried her away. She could recollect 
the way he pressed her to him and the very words he had said, 
“ My poor, dear little child ! yes, I know you think me cruel, 
Dossie, but you must have faith in me. Father has given you 
to me and I am to take care of vou until he comes back. Try 
to be good and reasonable, and we will all love you, and re- 
member you are my child now," and after he had said this he 
had made no further effort to check her tears, knowing her 
childish grief must have vent ; but from time to time he had 
stroked her hair, or patted the little listless hand, making her 
feel his unspoken sympathy and knitting her young affections 
more closely to himself. 

Dorothea shed a few quiet tears as the carriage rolled across 
the common, but Mrs. Geoffrey, with a tact that did her credit, 
left her alone and talked cheerfully to her husband and 
Sybil. 

“It is very trying, dear," she said in a sympathetic voice 
presently, “ but you will feel all right by and by. Geoffrey, 
vou must get Dorothea some coffee when we go in ; she has 
been over-excited. I think a glass of wine would do her good, 
and then she will not look so pale. We are dreadfully late, 
but of course I shall explain things to Lady Mervyn." 

After all, Mrs. Geoffrey declared herself perfectly satisfied 
when the evening was over. Dorothea had regained spirits 
and animation at the sight of the brilliantly-lighted rooms. 
The young debutante had behaved with great dignity and pro- 
priety, and had met with a great deal of attention. Mrs. 
Geoffrey overheard more than one person asking the name of 
the fair-haired girl with the lilies of the valley, and begging 
for an introduction. 

“ I think Dorothea is a success, Hilda," observed Geoffrey, 
with an admiring glance at his young wife, whose fair face 
was a little fiushed with her arduous duties. 

“ She is a darling !" returned Hilda, enthusiastically ; “ she 
does everything that I tell her. She has danced twice with 


852 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


Howard Mervyn, and three times with the Hon. Edgar Trum- 

E eton. Yes, I "think we had better go now. Sybil’s card is full. 

ut that cannot be helped ; I promised Dorothea that we would 
leave early.” 

“Hilda is charmed with you,” observed Sybil, as the girls 
were put into the carriage, with Fenwick to mount guard over 
them on the coach-box. Mrs. Geoffrey was a little delicate, 
and it was not thought advisable for her to drive back to the 
Witchens. The Geoffrey-Chudleighs had a nice house at South 
Kensington, and Mrs. Geoffrey had her private brougham and 
her maid. “ She will be your fast friend now, Dossie ; she has 
already made a match for you with that bald-headed young 
man, Mr. Trumpeton, — the Hon. Edgar, she called him. I 
think I should prefer Howard Mervyn myself. He is delight- 
fully handsome, but Mr. Trumpeton is the richest par^?‘.” 

“ Oh, what nonsense you talk, Sybil !” returned Dorothea, 
impatiently. “Who cares for Mr. Trumpeton? He danced 
well and his step suited mine, that was all. Now do let me be 
quiet and think about father ;” and as Sybil rather sulkily 
complied with this request, for she was an inveterate chatter- 
box and longed to expatiate on her conquests, Dorothea leaned 
back in a corner of the carriage and gave herself up to delicious 
musings. 

“ I wonder if father is asleep ?” she said, a little plaintively, 
as the carriage rolled into the courtyard of the Witchens, but 
as she stepped out she gave a little cry of delighted recognition, 
for Jack’s big form blocked up the door- way. 

“ I was not going to bed until I had had another look at 
you,” he said, as Dossie nestled up to him. “ The others are all 
gone ; Launce was sleepy and went off hours ago, but Della 
has only just left me. You are to go up to her, Sybil, for she 
wants to hear about the ball, and Dossie is to stay and talk to 
me, but not for long, — I promised Della that faithfully ; but I 
must have my little girl all to myself for a few minutes,” fin- 
ished Jack, with a satisfied look at his treasure. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 


BUILDING JACK’S HOUSE. 

“When a young woman behaves to her parents In a manner particu- 
larly tender and respectful, I mean from principle as well as nature, 
there is nothing good and gentle that may not be expected from her in 
whatever condition she is placed.”—FORDYCE. 

The unexpected arrival of the travellers and Lady Mer- 
yyn’s ball had somewhat disorganized the household at the 
Witchens; it was not surprising, therefore, that when 


BUILDING JACK^S HOUSE. 


353 


Launcelot made his appearance at the usual time the next 
morning he should find himself the sole occupant of the 
breakfast-room. 

Mrs. Chudleigh had kept her brother company while he 
waited for Dorothea's return from the ball, and the hours had 
passed quickly in listening to Jack^s penitent confessions, his 
account of his brief married life and Fen^s perfections, and of 
his long, weary exile ; while his eager questions about “ his 
little girl,^^ as he still fondly called her, were answered fully 
by Aunt Della, who could not speak too warmly of Dossiers 
sweetness of disposition, her unselfishness and goodness of 
heart. 

Launcelot was in his usual place by the window reading 
the “Times^^ when Dorothea came in from the garden, look- 
ing as bright and fresh as though she had enjoyed a good 
night^s sleep instead of retiring to bed at sunrise. She had 
some flowers in her hand still wet with dew, and she wore a 
little white gown that set off her pretty figure to perfection. 

One of the sudden bright smiles that had been her chief 
charm as a child lighted up her face when she saw Launce- 
lot. 

“Down already, Dorothea he exclaimed, in genuine sur- 
prise, “ I did not expect to see you for hours.^^ 

“It was impossible to sleep on such a morning,” she re- 
turned. “I have been round the garden with Beppo, and 
everything looks so fresh and lovely. Mr. Lance,” looking 
at him shyly, “ I am glad to find you alone, for there is some- 
thing I must say to you. Last night — well, I could only think 
of father, and there was so much that we had to say to each 
other after eight years ; but when I went up into my room I 
remembered that I had not said one word, not one word, to 
thank you for bringing him back to me, and yet it was all 
your doing.” 

“Nonsense ! I have done nothing to deserve thanks. Be- 
sides, you wrote to me ; I have the letter still. Do you think 
I have forgotten all the pretty things you said to me then?” 

“I did not say half enough,” she replied, with an earnest- 
ness that made him smile ; but he thought the sky itself could 
not be clearer than those candid blue eyes. Even as a child 
Dorothea's eyes had been lovely. “ Why do you say that you 
have done nothing ? but that is your way. Father and I know 
better. We know all the months you stopped away that you 
might help him settle things, and that he might have a com- 
panion for the voyage. You are always doing kind things, Mr. 
Lance, and yet I must not thank you !” 

“You shall thank me if you will, Dorothea,” he returned, 
taking her hand, and then her color rose a little. 

“You called me Dorothea last night and again this morn- 
ing,” she said, after a moment^s hesitation. “ I have never 
heard that name before from your lips ; before you went awav 
It was always Dossie.” 
a; 


854 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


“Ah, true,’^ he said, teasing her a little in his old way. 
“but last night it seemed to me that the child Dossie had 
gone, and that one would not find her again. 

“ Gone !’Mn a hurt voice. 

“Well, why not? The old order changes, and even Dossie 
cannot always remain a child. There is no need to look at me 
so reproachfully. When I saw you last night in all that 
whiteness I said to myself, ‘ This is a new Dorothea whose 
acquaintance I shall have to make. This is not the Dossie I 
left.^ Well, what now?’^ for she had dropped his hand and 
moved away, and there was a troubled look on her face. 

“ Oh, how you talk ! and yet I am not changed a bit. One 
must grow up and be a woman, but I am still Dossie just as 
much as you are Mr. Lance. It is not that I mind your calling 
me Dorothea, — I think I like it from every one but father ; to 
him I shall always be Dossie, — but I want you to feel that I 
am just the same.^^ 

“ N'o, you are not just the same, — you are a hundred times 
better, he said, gently, for he could see that she was really 
hurt. “ I told Madella so last night. I wish you could have 
heard her reply ; I think it would have Satisfied you.^^ 

“ But it is not compliments I want,^^ she returned still more 
shyly, but a little smile played round her lips. “ Aunt Della 
is always praising people, and so is Pauline. They all spoil 
me, and that is vmy I have grown so conceited. 

“ You are not conceited, Dorothea.^ ^ 

“Oh, I don^t know that ; I like people to think well of me, 
and I am disappointed if they do not seem to care.^^ 

“ Madella told your father last night that when he took you 
away the house would lose its sunshine. I call that a very 
pretty speech for Madella to make.^^ But to Launcelot^s sur- 
prise the young girl became suddenly serious. 

“What do you mean?” she faltered. “The Witchens is 
my home, is it not?” 

“Yes, dear, if you and Uncle Jack will have it so. As Mar 
della says, the place is big enough to hold us, but how about 
‘ the house that Jack built, ^ eh, Dorothea? — the visionary cot- 
tage, where Jack is to smote endless pipes in the back garden, 
while his little girl sits and talks to him.” 

Dorothea grew very pale. “Do you mean,” she asked, in 
a low voice, “ that it is still his plan that we should go away 
Ly our two^^elves and live in a cottage, that he would prefer 
that to the Witchens? or is it only one of your jokes, Mr. 
Lance ?” 

“ Oh, no, I am not joking,” he returned, quickly ; “ but you 
need not make yourself unhappy about it. Your father will 
do just as you wish ; you have only to tell him that you 
would rather remain at the Witchens, and he will never say 
another word about the cottage. Madella is longing to keep 
you both. She says Pauline will be settled before long, and 
that Bernard will be married soon— stupid fellow l and that 


BUILDING JACR^S ROUSE, 


855 


the house will be so big and empty with only Sybil and myself. 
You know Madella loves n umbers. 

“Yes, I know, but, Mr. Lance, that is not the question. I 
have to find out what are my father^s wishes, and how I am 
to make him happy. That is my duty now, is it not?^’ 

“ Undoubtedly ; there can be no question about that.^^ 

“ Then will you tell me, please, what he said to you about 
the future, — what were his plans, I mean, that I may know 
them beforehand., so that when he talks to me I can under- 
stand what to answer?’* 

“Why, Dorothea, you look as sober as a judge. My dear 
child, I hope your father means to be our guest for months. 
Certainly during the voyage he spoke a good deal about 
taking a small house near the Witchens, that you might not 
be separated from your friends. You see, a man of his age 
likes a little place of his own where he can be his own master ; 
and most likely, too, he may feel a sort of desire to have you 
to himself.” 

“Thank you for telling me,” she said, gently. “But he is 
not a rich man, is he, Mr. Lance?” 

“Not rich, certainly, but he can make you comfortable in a 
small way ; and, Dorothea, your aunt Della will still consider 
you one of her daughters. You must not separate your in- 
terests from ours, or let Jack’s notions of independence affect 
you. for Madella and I will always feel that you belong to 
us.” 

“You are very kind,” she returned, gravely; “but, Mr. 
Lance, it must make a difference. I have my father to con- 
sider now, and his wishes will be mine, and I must not sepa- 
rate myself from him in the least, because I am all he has in 
the world.” 

“But you will be his child, whatever happens,” returned 
Launcelot, touched by her uncomplaining sadness. “ ‘ My 
daughter is my daughter all the days of her life,’ that is what 
the proverb says. Look here, Dorothea, I can see how you 
feel about leaving the Witchens and Madeila. Let us ask 
your father to give it up. He is such a good fellow” that he 
will never say a word. There is the old school-room, that he 
could call his den, and half a dozen rooms besides. Why, the 
cottage is only an idea ; it will be a dull life for a young giri 
like you.’* 

“ And you think that I shall ask him to give it up ?” she re- 
plied, with a touch of scorn in her voice, “ that I ^all think 
of myseif at all in this? Oh, Mr. Lance, what an opinion 
you must have of me !” 

“ I have a very good opinion of you,” he answered, smil- 
ing ; “ it improves every minute, but I can see no occasion 
for your making such a sacrifice.” 

“And you would have me disappoint him? Oh, no, no! 
All these years he has been working and slaving to make a 
home for nis little girl. Ah, you may joke about * the house 


356 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


that Jack built, ^ but all these weary years he has been build- 
ing it brick by brick, and I am to go to him and say that I 
do not want it, that I would rather remain in my own dear 
home ! For it is my dear home, and I love ik I love it, but 
all the same my father shall have his wish. Mush ! here he 
comes. Not one word of this, Mr. Lance ; it is between you 
and me. Now I will pour out your cotFee, for you must be 
tired of waiting. Father, as Jack entered the room, looking 
bigger and rougher and grayer than he had looked by lamp- 
light, but still a grand figure of a man, father, you ought to 
have rested longer. No one is down but Mr. Lance, and I 
am sure you are tired.” 

“I believe I am. Dossie,” looking at the girl fondly as she 
hung about him, “ but there was no sleep for me last night ; 
if I dozed, the thought woke me that my little girl was asleep 
near me, under the very same roof. I could hardly help get- 
ting up to assure myself that it was the truth and not a dream. 
It seems so wonderful after all these years. I was so restless 
at last that I gave it up as a bad job, and when I pulled up 
the blind, there you were gathering flowers, and looking like 
a white May blossom. Fancy my little girl Dossie instead of 
log cabins, and the lowing of cattle and bleating of sheep I 
Somehow it seemed to me like paradise,” finished Jack, with 
homely eloquence. 

“ Poor father, no wonder your eyes look tired, but I shall 
talk or read you to sleep presently. Mr. Lance, I do not 
want to leave my father for an instant to-day, but there is 
Miss Rachel, and I wanted her to know of your return.” 

“That is easily settled,” he returned, pleased at this new 
instance of thoughtfulness. Dorothea seemed to show him 
new developments every minute. Her quiet decision and 
womanliness surprised him : few girls of eighteen would have 
had so much character. “I mean to go down to Spring 
Mead and report myself, so I can give Miss Rachel any 
amount of messages. By the bye,” looking at her steadily, 
“I believe I owe you some thanks, there,” and then Pauline 
came into the room followed by Sybil, who looked very hand- 
some and lackadaisical, and declared she felt tired to death 
after her ball, and then the conversation became general. 

Launcelot kept his promise of going to Spring Mead, where 
rapturous welcomes awaited him. Miss Thorpe did not have 
her t 6 te-di 46 te until the last. Mr. Thorpe carried him off to 
his study, where Joan joined them, and the children came in 
and made wild dashes at Uncle Launce, for Launcelot had 
established brotherly relations with Ivan and his wife, and 
was the family friend and counsellor, the man whom every 
one delighted to honor. Launcelot had long ago conquered 
the old pain ; hLs strong will and sense of rectitude had enabled 
him to triumph. He could accept Joanns frank affection with 
something like gratitude, for she had fulfilled his dearest 
hopes. Joanns knight had been jealous of liis lady’s honor. 


BUILDING JACK^S HOUSE, 


857 


He had striven with patient effort to re-establish her in her 
own good opinion as well as in her husband^s. In spite of her 
faultiness he had recognized hei true nobility of character. 
She had not disappointed him, and now the time had come 
that he could regard her with brotherly pride and goodness, 
so gentlv does healing Time lay his finger on mortal wounds. 

Miss Thorpe had him to herself by and by. Ivan, who 
respected his sister^ s invalid whims, only accompanied him to 
the threshold. 

“ Rachel never feels strong enough for more than one person 
at a time,^^ he explained; “Joan and I are the only excep- 
tions. She still suffers from those intense headaches, some- 
times.^^ 

Rachel was somewhat agitated as she greeted her favorite. 
Her nerves were not always under control, and though she 
chafed at her weakness she could not restrain her tears at first, 
but Launcelot^s gentleness soon soothed her, and they were 
soon chatting away in their old fashion. 

“How well you look she said, presently ; “I think that 
little dash of gray just suits you. You look like a colonist 
yourself, so strong and brown, and you are actually broader.’^ 

“I feel like a giant refreshed,'^ he returned. “I believe I 
was getting dreadfully home-sick at last. I told Madella that 
T should never leave iier again. - ^ 

“And how do you think Mrs. Chudleigh is looking 

“Lovelier than ever,^’ he returned, so earnestly that Miss 
Thorpe looked quite amused. “ Madella will never grow old, 
— at least, correcting himself as though he had been guilty 
of an anachronism, “ she will be perfect at any age.^^ 

“Mr. Chudleigh, I believe you almost worship your step- 
mother ” but he only smiled in answer. 

“ And Dorothea?” she continued, after Pauline^s affairs had 
been discussed, and a few other family items also. 

“Oh,” he said, lightly, “Dorothea is a new acquaintance; 
you must not catechise me too closely on that subject 
Eighteen months ago I left an unformed, growing girl, and 
on my return I find a finished young lady, a young princess 
dressed for a ball, and of course I am a little bewildered.” 

“ Yes, I can understand your feelings. Dorothea has changed 
very much during the last few months. She has developed, 
grown in every way. I think you will be pleased with her.” 

“ I am very much pleased with her.” 

“I am glad to hear you say that. I was half afraid from 
your tone that you thought Dorothea was just an ordinary 
young lady. We are all so fond of her here ; to me she has 
been the dearest little nurse and companion. I could give 
you a hundred instances of her thoughtfulness.” 

“Yes, she is very much grown,” he returned, gravely\ 

“ I am not easily pleased,” returned Rachel, smiling, “but 
Dorothea suits me perfectly. She is gentle, and yet she has 
plenty of character. She thinks for herself, which is more 


85S 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


thaa moat girls do ; and in spite of her culture, — for D)rothea 
is extremely clever and well-read for her age, and can talk to 
Ivan on any subject,— she is just as simple and unconscious as 
a child. And then she is so loyal in her attachments, too, so 
absolutely devoted to those she loves. You are still her hero, 
Mr. Chudleigh ; Dorothea never changes in her allegiance to 
you.^^ 

“No, she has strong conservative principles. I am old- 
fashioned enough to like that. Miss Thorpe, I wish you could 
have seen the meeting between her and Jack last night ! It 
was the prettiest scene — and Launcelot^s eyes softened as 
he remembered the girPs sweet looks and words, and the ex- 
pression on Jack’s rugged face. After all, it was almost too 
sacred for repetition ; and then he thought of their conversa- 
tion this morning, and of Dorothea’s quiet self-effacement. 
“My father’s wishes must be mine,” she had said, quietly; 
and yet he knew that her girlish heart was wrung at the 
thought of leaving the Witchens. 

Dorothea had spent the day quietly with her father. They 
had sat together and walked together, and no one had inter- 
rupted them. Towards evening Launcelot found them on the 
terrace enjoying the sunset. Dorothea was holding Jack’s 
arm ; they seemed talking earnestly together. When Dorothea 
turned round Launcelot thought she looked a little pale and 
weary, but there was a bright smile on her face. 

“Father and I are talking about the cottage, Mr. Lance,” 
she said, brightly, as Launcelot joined them. “ Do you think 
Aunt Della will mind if we look out for it at once ? Father 
says it is to be very near the Witchens, so that I can run in 
and see you every day if I like, and that will be so nice.” 

“I am so afraid Dossie will be dull,” observed Jack, anx- 
iously. “What do you say, Launce? She has been used to 
you all, and then you see there is so much luxury at the 
Witchens. I have been talking to Della, and she thinks it 
may interfere with Dossie’ s prospects to take her away. She 
says Mrs. Geoffrey was bringing her out, and that Dossie 
made a decided hit last night. Fancy Dossie a ball-room 
belle ! I don’t seem to understand it somehow, but of course 
I must not be selfish, — an old fellow like me. Dossie will 
marry one day, as Pen did before her, but I should like to 
have her to myself for a bit— just a month or two — before any 
young fellow comes.” 

“ Oh, father, how can you talk so?” returned Dorothea, with 
a blush. “What are young fellows, as you call them, beside 
my father? I do not want to go to balls and leave you, dear, 
— only, as Mr. Lance said last night, we do owe a duty to 
people, and I should be sorry to disappoint Aunt Della and 
Hilda. Hilda was so kind last night, you see,” with a child- 
ishness that made both the men smile. “Aunt Della has 
given me such lovely dresses for my first season that I am 
afraid she will be dreadfully disappointed if I do not wear 


BUILDING JACK'S HOUSE, 


359 


them, and we have accepted so many invitations too. So 
askea father if he would mind a solitary evening now and 
then while I went out with Hilda ; for if the cottage be near, 
the carriage could easily fetch me, and father says he shall 
always sit up for me, so there would be no difficulty about 
that.^^ 

“ Oh, there would be no difficulty at all,^^ agreed Launcelot, 
as she made this appeal to him. “ I would take care that you 
should have your flowers in good time. Stokes should cut 
them when he cut SybiPs, and the carriage would come all 
right.” 

“ Yes, but you don^t think Dossie will feel cramped in a 
little place after this?” looking round him ; and there was a 
trace of uncertainty in his manner. ** You see, Dossie has 
been spoiled. She has grown up a flne lady with a maid to 
take care of her things, just as though she were Delians daugh- 
ter, and a small house with two servants and a rough old 
father will be such a change for her.” 

Dorothea raised her lovely eyes to Launcelot with a mute 
entreaty that went to his heart. “ Do help me,” they seemed 
to say ; “his mind is set on this, and I cannot disappoint him. 
What does it matter about me?” 

Launcelot rose to the occasion. 

“ I think it might be tried,” he said, cheerfully. “ There is 
no need to bind yourself to anything. My advice is, look out 
for a small furnished house about here, and take it say for six 
months and see how it answers. Dorothea can try her hand 
at housekeeping, and you will soon see how the thing works. 
£t will be a sort of branch establishment to the Witchens. 
We will keep you stocked with fruit and flowers, Stokes will 
see to that ; and Madella^s maid can put Dorothea's gowns in 
order, and she and Sybil will go out under Mrs. Geoffrey ^s 
wing. And when you are tired of each other^s company, — 
well, Fenwick can always lay two places more at the dinner- 
table, and I will come and smoke my pipe with you. Jack, 
while Dorothea interviews the young fellows. Why, it will 
work excellently,” as Dorothea thanked him with a look, and 
Jack^s cloudy face cleared in a moment. 

“ It sounds first-rate. What a fellow you are, Launce, for 
putting a thing clearly ! I was rather muddled over it. You 
see, I could not bear that Dossie should lose her little pleas- 
ures and have no more pretty gowns, and flowers, and fallals 
that girls have, but Della says she will see about that ; that 
Dossie is as much her child as ever, and that she will order all 
her gowns as usual. You see, my pet,” turning to Dorothea, 
“I have not grown rich, even in eight years, and we cannot 
afford to live grandly,— just a little place big enough for our 
two selves and two tidy maids, and a little strip of garden. 
That is all we can afford.” 

“Yes, father dear, and what could I want more?” looking 
up at him with such love-filled eyes that Launcelot experi- 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


m 

enced an odd feeling that was almost envy. “What does it 
matter how small our cottage is, if I have you all to myself 
and as she reached up to kiss him, Jack took her in his arms 
and blessed her in a broken voice. 

“You have grown like Pen,^^ he said, huskily ; “she never 
had a thought but for my comfort. She was a sunbeam in 
the house, was Pen, and you will be like her. I am a lucky 
beggar, Launce. I don't half deserve my blessings, but, 
please God, I'll learn to deserve them better," finished Jack, 
reverently. 

More than once Launcelot's eyes rested with quiet satisfac- 
tion on Dorothea's sweet face that evening. They were a 
small party. Sybil had an engagement in the neighborhood, 
and Pauline had been summoned in haste to Bridge House, — 
\frs. Maxwell was dying, and at the last moment Charlotte's 
9 fong nerves had given way. 

“ This is sad work for you, Paul," her brother said to her, as 
' Le put her in the carriage. 

“It is not so sad for me as for Hedley," she returned, quietly ; 
‘I must think of him now. Indeed, I like to be there, 
Launce," as she understood his doubtful look ; “ you need not 
pity me." And Pauline was right. There was no happiness 
greater than this, than to know she was the support and 
somfort of that stricken household. 

Launcelot had invited the others into his studio, and, as 
the evening was chilly, there was a fire lighted by his orders, 
and the four gathered round it, — Launcelot beside his step- 
mother, and Dorothea in a low chair by her father. Jack had 
his pipe, but he soon laid it down ; every now and then his 
big rough hand touched Dorothea's soft, shining hair, smooth- 
ing it with infinite tenderness. Dorothea was a little quiet 
and thoughtful; she was listening to her aunt Della and 
Launcelot, who were discussing Bernard's prospects. 

“The boy is an ass !" observed Launcelot, with brotherly 
frankness. “He tells me that he means to be married be- 
fore the year is out. Why can't he wait until he gets a 
house ?" 

“ You see, he is so much in love, poor boy," returned Mrs. 
Chudleigh, in her motherly voice. ‘‘ Elsie is a dear girl, and 
we are all so fond of her, even Hilda. Dr. Carruthers makes 
no objections, so I suppose Bernard must have his way." 

“ I call it confoundedly impertinent to get married before 
his elder brother," returned Launcelot. “Now, Madella, 
don't look ^ me with those reproachful eyes, as though you 
did not know I was a confirmed old bachelor. Why, I shall 
be forty next birthday," observed Launcelot, blandly. 

But Mrs. Chudleigh only said, indignantly, What of that? 
You are quite young-looking still. Isn't he, Dorothea ! He 
could marry to-morrow, if he liked. Any girl would be proud 
to have Launce." 

But Dorothea did not answer ; perhaps the question escaped 


DOROTHEA, 


361 


her, only as Jack^s hand touched her again, she took it in both 
hers and kissed it. “ It is growing late, father,’^ he heard her 
Bay. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

DOROTHEA. 

“ If loving hearts were never lonely. 

If all they wished might always be, 

Accepting what they looked for only, 

They might be glad— but not in Thee.” 

A. L. WABINa 

*‘A maiden never loved 
Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion 
Blushed at herself.” 

SH AKESPE AE E. 

The next two or three weeks passed away smoothly and 
pleasantly at the Witchens. To Dorothea and her father the 
month that followed Jack^s return was simply perfect, a time 
of such exquisite happiness as few poor mortals are permitted 
to enjoy. 

Jack still talked a great deal about the cottage, and spent 
hours in searching the immediate neighborhood, but as yet 
his efforts had not been rewarded by success. No suitable 
house could be found, so Jack wisely resigned himself to his 
fate and spent his mornings in the old school-room, as it was 
still called, which had been given up to his use. Here he 
and Dorothea passed many pleasant hours. Jack at his easel 
finishing some sketches that Launcelot had praised, and Dor- 
othea working beside him or reading aloud, or practising her 
new songs, or tripping about the room arranging flowers and 
feeding her birds, for she was never idle a minute. 

Jack liked the pretty, old-fashioned room. He owned that 
it was almost as good as living in the cottage, for both Launce- 
lot and Mrs. Chudleigh took care that there should be no 
interruptions. Jack must have her all to himself for a little 
while, Launcelot would say ; “we must not grudge him 
Dorothea's society. 

So Jack Weston was made happy in his own way. He had 
his little girPs sunny face always beside him, no one found 
fault when he smoked his pipes, or sauntered about the gar- 
den in a favorite shabby coat. Jack could make himself 
spruce at times, when he and Dorothea took their long walks 
or rides together. Launcelot had hired a stout cob for Jack^s 
use, and now and then he would join them. How Dorothea 
enjoyed those rides, and what a pretty httle horsewoman she 
looked cantering beside them on her bay mare, with her fair 
hair shining under her hat I 
q 81 


862 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


Now and then Dorothea had to put on one of her pretty 
gowns and go grumblii^ and protesting to some ball or “at 
home’^ under Mrs. Geoffrey’s wing. How restless Jack was 
on these occasions ! how big and empty the great drawing- 
room looked when the girls had gone ! “ Let us go and have 
a smoke somewhere, Launce,” Jack would say ; “ I am going 
to sit up for Dossie, and I must do something to while away 
the time,” and he and Launcelot would adjourn to the studio. 

Those evenings were dull even to Launcelot ; he missed the 
boys’ jokes and Bee’s sprightly conversation. Pauline was 
quiet and subdued, and talked very little ; she moved about 
softly in her black dress, doing little services for one and an- 
other. But the loss of her kind friend, and the grief of the 
bereaved household, weighed on her spirits and depressed her. 
It was quite a relief to her when the two gentlemen went off 
and left her with her mother. Uncle Jack’s company imposed 
some degree of restraint on the conversation, and Pauline 
could not bring herself to speak about her friends at Bridge 
House to any one but her mother. 

“It does seem so dreadful for poor Prissy,” observed Mrs. 
Chudleigh, in a sympathizing voice, on one of these occasions. 
Pauline had brought her work to the little table where her 
mother’s favorite lamp stood. Jack had carried off Launcelot 
to the terrace for a moonlight saunter, and Sybil and Dorothea 
were being driven to Hyde Park Gate, where the Trumpetons 
were giving a grand ball. “ Of course, we know Major Drum- 
mond cannot wait, and that it will be a quiet wedding, but 
still for a bride to be in mourning I must say I am sorry for 
Prissy.” 

“ Of course it is sad,” returned Pauline, “ but I never could 
understand why a wedding need be gay. Prissy will feel just 
as much married though she has only walked to the church 
in the early morning in her travelling-dress. She will not 
wear black, of course. Hedley was shocked at the idea, and 
so was Brenda, but a soft pretty gray will just suit Prissy.” 

“ And they are to be married on Thursday?” 

“ Yes ; Launcelot and I are to meet them at the church at 
half-past nine. There will be no one but Hedley and Char- 
lotte, and a cousin of Major Drummond’s who is to act as best 
man. We are to go back to breakfast at Bridge House, and 
by eleven o’clock Prissy will have said good-by, but they will 
see her again in a fortnight’s time, just before they start.” 

“ I think that is very nicely arranged. They could hardly 
have douB-otherwise, as poor Mrs. Maxwell has only been 
dead three weeks. Poor Prissy will feel leaving under such 
circumstances ; and then Charlotte has been so ill.” 

“Hedley says she is much better now, but she looks 
wretchedly thin.” 

“ So does Hedley. I suppose, Pauline, that he has not 
spoken to you yet?” 

“ No, mother, we have never been alone for a minute. And 


DOROTHEA. 863 

then he is too unhappy; he thinks of nothing but his 
mother. 

“ It is very trying for you, my darling, but, as Launce says, 
it is only what he expected. At one time there seemed no 
prospect at all of your marriage, but he thinks Hedley ought 
to settle things now.^^ 

“So he will, but there is no hurry.^^ But though her 
mother left this uncontradicted it was her opinion, and 
Launcelot^s too, that the sooner Pauline and Dr. Maxwell 
were married the better it would be for them both. All Pau- 
line’s interests were at Bridge House ; she spent hours there 
daily in attendance on Brenda, who was suffering much at 
the time of her mother’s death, and on Charlotte, whose 
strength had suddenly broken down. No one could grudge 
Pauline those hours of ministry to the two afflicted women, 
or doubt her right to share her lover’s burthens, but the strain 
of the two lives was telling on her spirits, — she could no 
longer enter into Launcelot’s jokes, or enjoy Sybil’s chatter. 
The endless talk about balls, and art, and the great busy 
world outside bewildered her after months spent in sick- 
rooms. “I think I have grown stupid,” she said once, 
almost ready to burst into tears at some teasing remark from 
Sybil, and it was then that Launcelot expressed his opinion 
that it was Maxwell’s duty to settle things at once. “For 
you see, Madella,” he said, very sensibly, “how half-hearted 

g oor old Paul is about things. Her spirits are worn, and 
ybil’s nonsense tries her. Even Jack’s talk seems too much, 
that is why I take him away. He has such a big, jovial voice 
and such a great laugh, but one can’t damp the poor fellow.” 

“No, indeed ; it does one good to see him so happy. He is 
BO perfectly happy, and so is Dorothea.” And Launcelot was 
quite ready to indorse this remark. 

But he saw very little of Dorothea except during the even- 
ings, and even then Jack monopolized her. Not that there 
was an atom of jealousy in Jack’s nature, but he was so 
wrapped up in his girl, so utterly and absolutely devoted to 
her, that he seemed unconscious how often he claimed her 
attention, and how impossible it was for her to attend to any 
one else. 

After that first morning Launcelot had never exchanged a 
word alone with Dorothea, until one evening when he accom- 
panied her and Sybil to a dance at Mrs. Geoffrey’s house. 

Dorothea, who had never seen him dance, looked naively 
surprised when he asked her for the first w^altz. “ That is, 
if you do not think me too old for dancing purposes,” he 
added. 

“ Old !” she returned, indignantly ; “ why will you speak so 
of yourself, Mr. Lance ? It makes me feel vexed to hear you.” 
But she could not quite conceal her delight and astonishment 
at finding her hero a delightful partner. 

“ Oh, that was lovely,” she exclaimed, when the waltz was 


364 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


finished. “ Mr. Lance, I think no one dances as well as you 
do ; your step is perfect. 

Why,^^ he said, smiling at her frank compliment, I was 
going to say the same of you. You dance exceedingly well, 
Dorothea, and I am going to put down two more waltzes on 
your card, — that is, if you will allow me to do so?^' 

Dorothea gave her permission sedately. Two dances ! he 
might have had a dozen if he liked. She was only disap- 
pointed that he showed no intention of monopolizing her. 
What was Mr. Trumpeton or those stupid young officers com- 
pared to Mr. Lance? No, he was not tall, and perhaps people 
would not call him handsome, but there was something so 
distinguished about him, such an air of mingled ease and 
dignity. Just then Launcelot looked round as though aware 
of the girPs innocent scrutiny, and gave her one of his bright, 
affectionate smiles, but Dorothea colored and turned shyly 
away. Every now and then this slight veil of shyness or 
reserve hindered their brief intercourse ; she would be talking 
frankly to him in her old way, looking up in his face and 
answering his little jokes ; and all at once the words would 
seem to falter on her lips, and she would draw away from him 
with an air of dignity ; and when Launcelot tried to break 
through this sudden reserve he found himself confronted by a 
gentle firmness that seemed unassailable. 

“Why have you grown shy with me, Dorothea he said 
once when he had been greatly struck by this manner, at once 
so gentle and so repelling. “ The child Dossie was never shy 
with me, that is why I say that she is gone and we have a 
new Dorothea in her place. 

“Oh, Mr. Lance, she said, lightly, but she did not look at 
him, “I thought ‘ the old order changes;^ is not that what 
you said? One cannot keep one^s childish ways for ever.^^ 

“Oh, no,^^ returned Launcelot, bent on teasing her, “ I do 
not expect to find two little hands clasping my arm every 
time I take a turn in the shrubberies ; and when I come home 
after an hour^s absence, of course there is no Dossie waving to 
me from the window, — it is some one else who gets all these 
attentions now 

“ Ah, now you are teasing me,^’ she answered, but her cheeks 
were burning ; “ you want me to believe that you are jealous 
of father, but you will not get me to believe that. Oh, Mr. 
Lance,^^ her tone changing into earnestness, “is not father 
happy ? I tihink he has never been so happy all his life long, 
and yet we cannot find the cottage. 

“ I shall have to find it for you,” returned Launcelot, com- 
posedly, and somehow a little pang went through Dorothea's 
heart. What if he should keep his word, and this dear de- 
lightful time at the Witchens should come to an end ! In spite 
of her love for her father it saddened her to think of leaving 
that beautiful home, the only one she had ever known. More 
than this Dorothea did not vent ire to own. even to herself ; 


DOROTHEA. 


365 


there were hidden depths, closed even to her hidden conscious- 
ness, into which she had no desire to look. She only knew 
that the idea of separating her daily life from Launcelot^s was 
exquisitely painful, so painful that she had put away the 
thought entirely. 

Launcelot was a little amused at Dorothea’s shy moods, but 
now and then he would feel piqued and perhaps hurt by the 
girl’s reserve. But he was very much interested in her ; in 
many ways she suited his fastidious taste. He admired her 
particularly this evening, and though he showed no wish to 
monopolize her he watched her a good deal, and on his return 
told his step-mother that her behavior had been perfect. 

“ I was very much pleased with them both,” he said, quietly. 
‘‘ Sybil was evidently much admired, but I liked Dorothea’s 
manner best. She is very gentle, and yet she is piquante ; she 
can say things worth hearing, and yet she is unconscious of 
her cleverness. She has an innocent way with her that I like ; 
Trumpeton seemed to like it too. I fancy, from what Hilda 
says, that he is hard hit.” 

“Do you really think so, Launce? It would be a grand 
match for Dorothea ! She would be the Hon. Mrs. Trumpeton, 
and have her house in town, and such a pretty place in Kent !” 

“Pshaw!” returned Launcelot, contemptuously, for some- 
how the idea did not please him at all. “Fancy Dorothea 
marrying that old-young man, with his bald head and lisping 
voice ! I think better things of the girl,” and he turned on his 
heel and could not be induced to say another word about the 
ball. 

Dorothea looked a little tired when she bade her father good- 
night ; Jack had waited up as usual, and was smoking in the 
porch when they arrived. 

“You look pale, my pet,” he said, anxiously. “ Have you 
danced too much?” 

“ Danced too much !” with a merry little laugh. “ Father 
dear, what an idea ! I am never tired with dancing ; the only 
difficulty is to stop, — but all the same I am very sleepy,” and 
then she ran off humming a little air. 

Launcelot marvelled at this sudden fit of gayety, for she had 
been extremely quiet all the way home. 

During their last dance together they had been chatting 
cheerfully, when all at once he had said, — 

“Oh, by the bye, Dorothea, I have quite forgotten to tell 
you that I think I have found the cottage. I met with it quite 
by accident ; it was not even advertised, and no one knew that 
it was to be let. Miss Thorpe told me about it. The people 
want to let it at once for six months or even longer. The wife 
has to go abroad for her health to some German watering-place 
or other, and it is very well furnished, and is altogether a nice 
little place; it is in the Burnley Road, turning off from the 
common, about half a mile from the Witchens, so you see it 
would be quite close.” 


81 * 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


“I am glad of that,^^ she answered, quietly, looking down 
at her flowers. “ And the people wish to let it at once ?” 

“ Zes, they would go out next week. Shall we have a look 
at it to-morrow before you talk to your father ? It would be 
such a surprise to him if we were to come home and tell him 
it is all settled.” 

“Oh, yes,” she returned, quickly; “father is tired of look- 
ing at houses, and he said yesterday that I might settle on any 
one I liked. I think all these little details trouble him. It 
was so in the old days when we were looking for lodgings, but 
I was too young to help him then ; but he shall not have any- 
thing to worry him now if I can prevent it.” 

Launcelot thought of this little speech as he watched Doro- 
thea with her father, — the slim, girlish creature, and Jack 
with his great muscular frame and magnificent physique. 
Dorothea always looked so young and childish beside Jack ; 
his bigness seemed to swallow her up, and yet already she 
guided him. 

Launcelot thought a good deal about Dorothea that night. 
How cheerfully she had acquiesced in his little plan ! She had 
not uttered a dissenting word or entreated an hour^s delay ; 
she put aside her own wishes in a moment. It was this un- 
selfishness that charmed him. He was beginning to under- 
stand her thoroughly, and he knew instinctively that she 
would never disappoint him. 

“ She is a dear little thing,” he thought ; “ I don^t half like 
the idea of parting with her. Confound Jack^s obstinacy f 
Why can^t he make up his mind to stay here? I wish I 
could hit on some plan for keeping them.” Nevertheless no 
such plan had occurred to Launcelot when he and Dorothea 
started for Burnley Road the following afternoon. 

He had been at Bridge House that morning with Pauline, 
and had joined the Maxwells in Riversleigh Church. The 
quiet service had seemed very solemn and appropriate to them 
both, but even Launcelot felt himself moved when the trem- 
bling, pale-faced bride clung to the brother who had taken the 
father’s place to them both. 

“ Oh, Medley,” she whispered, “ if only dear mamma could 
be here to kiss and bless me !” 

“She knows all about it, my dear,” was his soothing an- 
swer. “You must think of your husband to-day. Prissy; 
look, Drummond is waiting for you. We shall see you again 
by and by ;” and poor Prissy, with swollen eyes and the tears 
still running down her cheeks, suffered herself to be put in the 
carriage. 

“ Oh, Charlotte,” she exclaimed, as her sister gave her a 
parting kiss, “ I can never thank Hedley for all he has done. 
Ask Pauline to be good to him. He looks so ill and so misera- 
ble !” But Major Drummond made a sign to Charlotte to say 
no more, and put his arm round his poor little wife. 

“ T will bring you to see them all again, my darling. This 


DOROTHEA. 


367 


Is not good-by. Don^t cry any more and after a time Prissy 
allowed herself to be consoled. 

Launcelot went back to the Witchens after this, and Pau- 
line went up to Brenda, who between nervous exhaustion and 
sisterly sympathy was suffering martyrdom. Charlotte was 
too busy to give the quiet, undivided attention that she 
needed, and Pauline found herself a prisoner for the re- 
mainder of the day. 

Brenda was so seldom nervous and exacting that Pauline 
felt that she must be soothed at all costs, so she read to her 
and talked to her until her fluttered spirits had regained their 
usual tone. “ Oh, how selfish I have been V' she said at last. 
“You have been sitting in this darkened room for hours 
listening to my grumbling fancies until you are quite worn 
out. Do go down now, dear Pauline. I am so much better 
that I know I shall soon sleep. Why can^t one fight against 
these moods? But no, the horrible depression will master 
one. Hedley says it is all because one^s nerves are unstrung, 
but I can never get it out of my mind that it must be from 
some fault of my own.^^ 

Pauline tried to repress a little sigh of weariness, but she 
took up a book she had just laid down. 

“Have you forgotten the passage your dear mother has 
marked? I was reading it to her the very day before she 
died ; she made me read it over and over again, and then she 
said, ‘ Oh, I must mark that ; it will just suit Brenda when 
she has one of her low fits.^ 

“ Darling mother ! That was so like her. Yes, read it, Paul. 
When my head is like this I do not recall things easily ; it is 
from Boussuet, is it not?” 

“Yes. He is speaking of depression ; he says, ‘ It is not true 
that sadness cannot come direct from God, — witness that of 
the holy human soul of our Lord. 

“ ‘ The heaviness in which the Evangelist tells us that it was 
plunged was in no way different from what we call sadness : 
it became depression — very anguish ; and was He not agitated 
when He exclaimed, “ My soul is troubled ; what shall I say? 
Father, save me from this hour?” Was there not a certain 
anxious restlessness in the way He went three times to His 
disciples and returned three times to His Father ? . . . 

“ ‘All this teaches us that our Head bore in Himself all the 
weakness which His members were to bear, so far as the great- 
ness of His perfections admitted. . . . 

“‘It is not well to torment ourselves with investigating 
whether our sadness is the result of our own weakness or 
a Divine trial ; for supposing it to be the first, which is the 
safest belief, it is none the less true that God can use it to lead 
us His own way, as much as what comes immediately from 
Himself, because He overrules alike our weakness and our evil 
inclination, everything indeed, even to our sins, till they pro- 
»note our salvation.' ” 


368 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


“ Ah, yes, that is beautiful, returned Brenda, with a quiet, 
satisfied look in her eyes; ‘‘lay the book beside me, Pauline 
dear. I shall always feel as though mother were speaking 
those words. I know she used to suffer so much from depres- 
sion. Hedley said it was physical depression and could not 
be helped, but she never let us be troubled by it. She used to 
say so little about herself, even to Hedley. I think it was 
mother who first taught me to be brave, and try to bear things 
quietly. ‘We must not overburthen people’s sympathy,’ she 
would say; ‘sympathy is capable of exhaustion.’ Ah, how 
wise she was !” 

“I think it was just this that first struck me in you all,” 
returned Pauline, thoughtfully. “ I liked the quiet way you 
all took things, — most people make such a fuss ; and yet with 
all your troubles, illness, and poverty, and countless anxieties, 
there was never any grumbling. You each carried your own 
burthens so cheerfully. Yes, indeed, Brenda,” as the invalid 
shook her head, “ how often have Launce and I talked about 
you and wondered over your patience !” 

“ I have given you a specimen of my patience to-day,” re- 
turned Brenda, smiling. “ But I could not help myself ; Prissy 
upset me, showing me her wedding-ring and sobbing over it, 
and then I missed mother so,” and here the tears would come, 
“ and one can’t jump up and shake off depression, and must 
just lie and bear it. Never mind, you have done me good and 
the horrid restlessness has gone. I don’t care a bit for the 
worn, tired feeling that comes afterwards. I know I shall 
just sleep it oflE*. Ah, what a blessed thing sleep is ! Kiss me, 
dear, and now go down to Charlotte. I don’t mean to behave 
in this ungrateful way any more.” 

“Oh, Brenda, who can help loving you?” returned Pauline, 
affectionately ; and indeed her heart clung in sisterly affection 
to this patient, fine^hearted creature, who seemed to Pauline 
a miracle of fortitude and endurance. 

She felt herself rebuked as she went down-stairs ; all day 
she had been conscious of a heavy weight at her heart, a sort 
of impatient lassitude fettered her. Pauline would have 
mocked at the idea of nerves, and yet in reality she was 
sadly overstrained and in need of comfort. 

Since his mother’s death Dr. Maxwell and she had hardly 
exchanged a word. She had been occupied with Brenda and 
Charlotte, and a great deal of Charlotte’s business had de- 
volved upon her, but Dr. Maxwell had kept away from his 
sister’s room, and when he and Pauline met he had seemed 
abstracted and melancholy. 

Once during the marriage service she had seen him looking 
at her with grave attention, but he had looked away at once 
when their eyes met, and Pauline had felt herself a little 
chilled. “He does not come to me for comfort,” she said, 
trying to fight down her weary feelings, “and yet if I lost 
my mother no one but Hedley would console me. Perhaps 


THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW, 


369 


he does not love me as much as he used to do, or he would try 
to be with me sometimes but the next moment Pauline re- 
pelled these doubts ; they were unworthy of herself and Hed- 
ley. Did he love her less because he was mourning his mother 
BO faithfully? “ I have not trusted him for six years to doubt 
him now,^^ Pauline said to herself in her old sensible way. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW. 

“ The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
As are the conceal’d comforts of a man 
Lock’d up in woman’s love.” 

Middleton. 

When Pauline opened the door of the dining-room, expect- 
ing to find Charlotte, she was surprised to see that the sole 
occupant of the room was Dr. Maxwell, sitting at his writing- 
table. Directly he saw her he pushed aside his papers and 
came towards her. 

“I was just coming in search of you. Please don^t go 
away,^^ as Pauline seemed unwilling to disturb him. “Were 
you looking for Charlotte? She has gone across to the 
Robertsons ; they sent for her. What have you been doing 
with yourself all the afternoon ?^^ 

“ I have been with Brenda. She has had such a bad day, 
but she is better now, and seems inclined to sleep. 

“ Oh, the bustle and leave-taking have been too much for 
her ; but Charlotte ought not to have allowed you to sacrifice 
yourself in this way. I have never seen you look so tired. 
And as the tears came into Pauline^s eyes at his kind tone, he 
said gently, “ Come with me into the garden, dear; the air 
will refresh you, and it will do me good too.^^ And she went 
with him at once. 

There was a nice old-fashioned garden behind the house, 
and though it was not large all the family took a great pride 
and pleasure in it, and Dr. Maxwell and Charlotte spent all 
their leisure time trying to cultivate a few fiowers. Dr. Max- 
well, indeed, was no mean gardener, and was given to boast 
of his roses. 

At the end of the shady lawn there was a seat under an 
acacia, and here Dr. Maxwell led Pauline, and as he sat down 
beside her he said, quietly, — 

“ I think the time has come for us to have a little talk to- 
gether. You know what my mother wished, Pauline ?^^ 

“ Yes,^^ she answered, simply. 

V 


370 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


“ She was always thinking about us and jdanning for our 
happiness. The inevitable delay fretted her. Again and 
again she spoke to me, and begged that I would lose no time 
in putting you in her place. She seemed to dread any further 
delay, especially for my sake.^’ 

“ I know ; she often talked to me too,^^ returned Pauline, in 
a low voice. 

“ I think she was right. What do you say, dear ? We have 
loved each other for six years, and I think I can say our love 
has grown. If I cared for you six years ago, you can judge 
what I feel for you now\^^ 

“You are not tired of me, Hedley?^^ 

“Tired, my darling!'^ drawing her closer. “Do we grow 
tired of our greatest blessing? Even you cannot guess what 
you have been to me all these years ! You have been our good 
angel, Pauline. Can I forget that you have been like a 
daughter to my mother, and the truest sister to Charlotte and 
Brenda 

“I loved to do things for your sake, Hedley, — it made me 
happy. 

“ 1 know it, love ; but you must not mistake my meaning 
if I avow to you now that our position tried me horribly, — 
that I could often have found it in my heart to beg you not to 
come, — that I could not bear it.^^ 

“Oh, Hedley in a troubled tone. 

“ My darling, a man feels so differently about things. Often 
and often I have stolen up to the drawing-room door when 
you were reading to Brenda and Aunt Myra, just for the 
pleasure of hearing your voice ; and then the thought that I 
must not cross the threshold, that a sense of honor kept me 
away, almost drove me crazy ! Those were my bad moods, 
when I made every one round me uncomfortable. But there 
were other times when I was strong and reasonable, and then 
it comforted me to know you were waiting for me, and that 
one of these days we should be together. 

“ Poor Hedley ! — but you must not think that I was always 
happy. I used to long so painfully for just a word to tell me 
that you still cared. 

“As though I could change !” he returned, with a glimmer 
of his old smile. “No, Pauline, in spite of our bad moods we 
never really doubted each other. Perhaps I have seemed cold 
to you sometimes, and you may have thought that I could 
have spoken to you before. But I did not wish to speak 
until I could ask you to fix the time for our marriage. Will 
you write to your mother, or shall I come up to-morrow 

“ I think that will be best. But, Hedley, you must promise 
not to flurry mother. She may not want to hurry things, and 
indeed there is no need,^’ rather shyly. 

“"No need,^^ and Dr. Maxwell roused in earnest at this, 
“and we have been engaged six years! Oh, that reminds 
me,^^ his tone changing into exquisite tenderness ; “all these 


TEE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW. 371 

years I have never given you a present, and you have worn 
no pledge of my affection. Pauline, will you let me put this 
ring on your finger? It was my mother^s engagement-ring, 
and she wore it to the hour of her death. 

But Pauline hesitated as she looked at the magnificent 
half-hoop of diamonds. 

Ought not Charlotte to have it?^^ she whispered. 

‘‘No, dear, Charlotte will have rings enough. There are 
all Aunt Myra^s. And I wish my wife to wear this always. 
Then Pauline yielded, but as Hedley put it on she said, wist- 
fully,— 

“ I shall love to wear it, but it makes no difference ; I always 
felt I was engaged to you, though I had no ring.^^ 

“And I to you,^^ he returned, gently, “ but all the same the 
world will recognize our position. Now will you tell Mrs. 
Chudleigh that I will come and speak to her to-morrow? 
And, Pauline, I will only venture to ask one favor, — that our 
wedding may be quiet. 

“ I will be married in my travelling-dress, like Prissy, if 
you wish,^^ she replied, submissively. 

“No, dearest, I do not wish that. Your mother will like 
to see you in bridal white, and so shall I. You shall not be 
deprived of your privileges, Pauline, but I think a gay wed- 
ding would not suit either of us.^^ 

“No, indeed. I want no one but Geoffrey and Hilda, and 



a dreadfully gay wedding, and I said then that nothing would 
induce me to follow her example. 

“I know I am safe in your hands. Now, dear, I have a 
patient to see on the hill, so we may as well walk together,’^ 
and as Pauline agreed to this they set out together. 

It was her first walk with Hedley, and Pauline thoroughly 
enjoyed it. Things were made plain between them, and she 
no longer misunderstood his silent gravity ; and as Hedley 
looked at lier bright face and saw the happy look in the brown 
eyes, he thanked God that he had won her faithful love. 

“You will make me young again, dear,^^ he said, as they 
parted on the common. “Charlotte was moaning over my 
gray hairs yesterday.^’ 

“I am quite satisfied with you as you are,^^ she returned, 
contentedly, and she walked away happier, while Hedley 
stood and watched her. “God has been very good to me,^' 
thought Pauline, as she looked at the sunset. “I was just 
losing faith and feeling jaded and miserable, and then Hedley 
spoke to me. I only just wanted the comfort of a word. It 
was not that I really doubted or was impatient, but I so 
longed for him to speak. Oh, how dear he was ! so gentle and 
so considerate, and he does not think of himself at all, but 
onlv of me, — but he shall have everything as he wishes it. I 
will tell mother that there must be no fuss and no unneces* 


872 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


eary delay ; she will try to please us both, and Hedley’s wishes 
will be mine.^^ 

While matters were being thus happily arranged between 
the lovers, Launcelot had kept his engagement with Dorothea. 

Jack was to know nothing of their expedition. At the last 
moment Dorothea had tripped into the school-room in her 
walking-dress, and as Jack looked up in some surprise from 
his easel she said, carelessly, — 

“ I am going out with Mr. Lance, father ; he wants to take 
me across the common. I shall not be very long, and when I 
come back I dare say you will be ready for your walk,” and 
then she kissed him and ran off. 

Launcelot was waiting for her in the porch, and looked at 
her attentively as she joined him. 

“You look very nice, Dorothea,” he said, slowly ; “that is 
a pretty gown you have put on in honor of our first walk to 
gether.” 

“Our first walk,” she replied, with a little laugh ; “how 
often have I been across the common with you, Mr. Lance, — 
a hundred times at least !” 

“Ah, that was Dossie,” he returned, seriously. “I can 
assure you that I have never walked with Dorothea before;” 
but she made no answer to this, only began talking about the 
cottage in a quiet, business-like way. 

They soon reached Burnley Boad, and then Launcelot 
pointed it out, a low, old-fashioned cottage, with a bay window 
and a little trellis work porch, standing back in a smali but 
exceedingly pleasant garden, with a tiny lawn, and a gravelled 
path planted with standard rose-trees. 

“ It is only a small place, and Jack is very big, but I think 
it will hold you both,” he remarked as they went up to the 
door. 

“ Mrs. Moore was out,” the servant informed them, but her 
sister. Miss Reynolds, would speak to them, and a thin, fussy- 
looking woman with sandy hair and spectacles made her ap- 
pearance, and showed them over the cottage, talking all the 
time in a thin, highly-pitched voice that was very exasper- 
ating to Launcelot. 

It was certainly a nice little place ; the drawing-room, 
though somewhat low, was a pretty room, and very tastefully 
furnished, and a glass door led into a small conservatory. The 
dining-room was comfortable, and a small third room was 
fitted up as a study. Up-stairs there were four good bedrooms 
and a bathrroom, and though the back garden was small, it 
seemed to take Dorothea’s fancy, and she pointed out an arbor 
with great delight. “ Father will smoke his pipe there,” she 
whispered, and Launcelot nodded assent. 

“You think it will do?” he asked aloud, when the question 
of terms had been discussed. 

“ Oh, yes ; it is just the thing,” she returned, looking about 
her with quiet satisfaction. “I think we may settle it, Mr. 


THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW. 


373 


Lance ; it will be such a comfort, too, having the servants, 
and will save Aunt Della the trouble of looking out, and you 
see Miss Reynolds says we can have the cottage in ten days/^ 

“Oh, yes,’^ replied Miss Reynolds, “my sister is most 
anxious to be off as soon as possible. I think you will be 
perfectly satisfied with the cottage. Mr. Moore has spent a 
great deal on it. It is just the place for a newly-married 
couple, and I am quite sure,^^ with a winning smile at Doro- 
thea, “ that you and Mr. Chudleigh will find it a pleasant 
abode. 

Launcelot did not dare look at Dorothea as Miss Reynolds 
made this unlucky speech. He was afraid he should burst 
out laughing in the spinster^s face, but Dorothea, who had 
blushed so vividly that even her little ears were pink, drew 
herself up with much dignity. 

“ I think my father will like the cottage, she said, civilly. 
“Will you settle with Miss Reynolds, Mr. Lance but she 
also did not look at him as she spoke, — but Miss Reynolds was 
unfortunately rather deaf. 

“ Already settled. I beg your pardon, Mr. Chudleigh, I had 
no idea that this young lady was your wife. I should have 
said — but here Dorothea fled into the conservatory and left 
Launcelot to explain matters, which he did somewhat curtly, 
drawing down voluminous apologies and explanations that 
were alike tiresome. 

Dorothea, hot and indignant, thought the odious woman 
would never have finished, but Launcelot put in his word at 
last. 

“Then that is all settled. Miss Reynolds,” she heard him 
say at last in an unusually loud voice, “ and Mr. Weston and 
his daughter can come in any day next week. Miss Weston 
will write to Mrs. Moore when she has fixed the day. Now, 
Dorothea, we are ready, I think,” coming in search of her, 
and Dorothea, who was twisting a bit of geranium in her 
fingers, passed Miss Reynolds with a haughty little nod. 
There was a gleam of fun in Launcelot^ s eyes as he followed 
her. The mistake liad amused him excessively, but he could 
see Dorothea was annoyed, so he wisely talked about Mr. 
Moore^s improvements and the benefit of having a third room 
for Jack^s use. And then he remarked that it was quite early, 
and they might as well sit down on the common and enjoy 
the fine air. And then he wondered what Pauline was doing 
at Bridge House, and if she and Maxwell had come to terms 
yet ; and though Dorothea answered him sedately, he could 
see that she had by no means recovered her equanimity. So 
he thought he would have it out with her at last. 

“Do you know,” he said, lightly, “that I was very much 
flattered by Miss Reynoldses speech ? It was evident that she 
did not think me old at all ; on the contrary, she regarded me 
in the light of a smart young bridegroom. I call that vastly 
^mplimentary.ee But this remark failed to mollify Dorothea. 

U 


174 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


“Please do not joke about such things, Mr. Lance,” she 
said, quickly. “ I do not like this sort of joke.” 

“^Neither do I,” he returned, a little abashed at her grave 
tone. “ It seems to me that you and I think alike on most 
things, Dorothea, but you must not be put out because of an 
old maid^s mistake. I only wish that it had been the truth, 
my dear, and then I should never have had to part with you.” 

Launcelot had made this little speech out of pure good- 
nature, and to put Dorothea at her ease ; but, when he turned 
round with the amused smile still on his face, he was appalled 
at the effect of his words, — there was not an atom of color in 
the girPs face, and she was trembling from head to foot, and 
her eyes were full of tears. 

He had been joking, and she had taken his words for earnest, 
— that was his first thought, but the next ! — Why should it not 
be true — what should hinder him from making it the truth ? 

In all his life Launcelot had never felt such a sudden im- 
pulse. Years afterwards he said that that quick fiash of in- 
telligence must have been the work of his good angel. A 
moment before he had been joking, and then something 
seemed to whisper to him, “ Why should it not be true? 
Dorothea is yours, — has always been yours : why not take the 
blessing Providence has given you ?” went on the same inward 
monitor. 

Launcelot was giddy and confused. Some hidden power 
seemed to subjugate his will ; he was almost as pale as Doro- 
thea, and his voice was not steady when he spoke again. 

“ Dorothea,” he said, gently, “ it pains me to see you look 
like that, and to see you turn away from me as though you 
feared me. I never thought that such a thing could be possi- 
ble, — that you could care for me in that way. I thought I 
was too old. I only know it would be a very happy thing for 
me, if you could love me well enough to marry me.” 

He had spoken quietly that he might not alarm her, and yet 
it did not seem to be he who had spoken, but as the last word 
passed his lips he was grieved to see Dorothea shrink awaj; 
and cover up her face with her hands. And he could scarcely 
hear her voice, it was so broken with sobs, but with some dif- 
ficulty he understood her to say that it must not be, — that she 
was so young and childish, and that he was far too v*ood and 
too wise for her : that he did not mean it, that he surely could 
not mean it ! 

“ Why should I not mean it?” he returned boldly, for this 
opposition fknned the sudden flame, and made things clearer 
and more possible. “Do you think I would not keep you 
with me always if I could? — and there is no other way but 
this, and it seems to me a good way, and somehow you'have 
always belonged to me. Please don^t cry so bitterly, Doro- 
thea. I want to make you as happy as I can, but I must know 
what is in your heart for me, for if you do not love me well 
enough, there is nothing more that I can say.” 


THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW. 


375 


“Oh,” she said simply, “ I think I have loved you always, 
Mr. Lance, though I did not know what it meant, but I 
never — never could have cared for any one else !” 

“ That is all I want to know,” he returned, taking her hand. 
“Then, Dorothea, it is settled between us, that one day you 
are to be my dear little wife ?” but though Launcelot spoke so 
quietly, and there was no change in his tone, there was a sense 
of contentment and marvellous well-being that told him that 
he had done the right thing for his own happiness. 

Dorothea made no audible answer, but she blushed, and 
left her hand in Launcelot^ s ; but the next moment she said, 

, Mr. Lance, there is father coming across the common, 
and he is looking for us, and he will wonder if I do not run to 
meet him as usual.” 

“Do you mind going by yourself?” he asked, gently, “for 
there is the cottage that you have to tell him about, and he 
must not be told everything at once. See here, Dorothea, I 
will leave you for a little, and go away and compose my 
thoughts, and when I come back I will speak to your father 
and as Dorothea agreed to this, Launcelot dropped her hand, 
and quickly walked away across the common, while Dorothea 
moved towards Jack. 

“Am I in my senses?” thought Launcelot as he strode on, 
caring little which path he took. “Is it possible that I who 
told Madella yesterday that I was an old bachelor, and should 
never marry, am to-day an engaged man, and engaged to 
Dorothea — to Dossie?” and here he laughed, and struck at 
some bushes he passed with his stick. “ Will Madella think I 
am crazy when I tell her ?” 

And then all at once he grew sober, and stood still, leaning 
his arms upon a fence and looking down at a pond where some 
ducks were swimming, for there suddenly flashed across his 
memory the charming face of his Elizabeth, the face of the 
woman whom he had so passionately loved. Yes, it was before 
him as though mirrored in the water ; there were the gray 
eyes gleaming with fun, the frank mouth,—Joan lovely and 
bewitching as ever, — but there was no numb miserable pain 
gnawing at his heart now as he recalled her image, only a 
sort of sadness as he thought of the long melancholy years 
that were past. Thank God, he had ceased to suffer, Joan 
was nothing to him now but a friend whom he loved and 
reverenced. He had not wronged Dorothea in that ; he was 
free to love and marry. But the only question now was how 
far his impulsiveness had been to blame : had he taken ad- 
vantage of Dorothea's youth and guilelessness? True, she 
had betrayed herself in her childish way, but would it not 
have been wiser to wait until he was sure that her affection 
was returned ? There had been no wooing on his part, not 
one word of love, and yet they were engaged ! 

“I think I must have been possessed. I hardly seemed 


376 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


master of my own words, he thought, “but she looked so 
sweet and so unhappy that I longed to comfort her. I believe 
it was nothing but a mistake at first. I was just joking and 
meant nothing, and she took it in earnest ; and yet though I 
know this, though I do not pretend to be in love with Doro- 
thea, I have no wish to take back a word. I am quite satis- 
fied and quite happy ; and this is what puzzles me, that I am 
not a bit afraid of the future either, hers and mine, though 
what Jack will say to me I hardly know,— but I don^t seem 
to care about that either.^' 

Launcelot could make nothing of his present mood. His 

g osition amused him. In his secret heart he was proud of 
is new character as Dorothea’s fiance. In a dim way, for he 
could grasp nothing clearly, he felt as though his life were 
suddenly enlarged ; a new interest had come into it. The 
sense of solitude that had so long harassed him was soothed 
by the promise of future companionship. “ I shall not be 
lonely with Dorothea,” he thought, as he retraced his steps, 
“ and I shall have her to think about instead of my stupid 
self and then his eyes brightened, and he felt a quiet sensa- 
tion of pleasure stealing over him as he caught sight of Doro- 
thea sitting in the same place where he had left her talking 
to Jack, and he knew at once by her earnest manner, and the 
look on Jack’s face, that she had not waited for him to speak. 
Most likely Jack had seen that she had been crying, and had 
questioned her too closely, and she had not been able to satisfy 
him with her talk about the cottage. Very probably Jack 
had waxed curious and rampant, — and he found out after- 
wards that this was the case. 

“ Father saw I had been crying at once, and he was in such 
a way that I was obliged to tell the truth,” Dorothea said, 
when she found herself alone with Launcelot. “I did not 
want to tell him, but I could not help myself.” 

“ I stayed away too long ; you must forgive me, Dorothea,” 
he answered, looking down at his gentle little sweetheart 
with undisguised atFection, “ but I was thinking over things, 
and the time passed so quickly.” 

Jack looked very gruff and red when Launcelot joined 
them. “Have you finished about the cottage?” he asked, 
looking at Dorothea. 

“ Hang the cottage I” replied Jack, sulkily ; then, in spite 
of the gravity of the situation, Launcelot burst out laughing. 

“ Oh, it is all very well for you to laugh,” went on Jack, 
gloomily. ‘^What’s the cottage to me when you have robbed 
me of Dossie? Why, when she told me just now, you might 
have knocked me over with a feather ! I could not believe she 
was serious. ‘ Mr. Lance has asked me to be his wife, father.’ 
Why, it was like a clap of thunder to me !” 

“Don’t, Jack ; please don’t speak in that tragical voice, as 
though I had done you an injury.” 

“ & you have injured me, confound you I Isn’t it injury to 


THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW, 


377 


rob me of my little girl ? Here you have had her all these 
jrears, and just when my turn has come you want to stop my 
innings. I must talk to Della ; Dossie is not old enough to be 
married. Pen was nineteen the day we were engaged. Dossie 
must follow her mother’s example. Pen was only a slip of a 
girl when she married me ; ‘ far too young,’ she said after- 
w’ards.” 

“ All right, old fellow ; we can settle that presently. You 
would have no objection personally to me as Dorothea’s future 
husband?” 

*‘No objection ! I would not let any other man have her,” 
returned Jack, still wrathfully. You must have her if you 
want her. Do you think I could refuse you anything?” and 
now Jack’s eyes were dim. “ I think Dossie has always be- 
longed to you more than to me. There, we will say no more 
about it,” as Launcelot grasped his hand. “Dossie is a for- 
tunate girl, I know that.” 

“ But there is a great deal more that I have to say,” returned 
Launcelot, glancing at Dorothea with a smile. The girl looked 
up at him a little sadly. “Do make him happy, and never 
mind me,” her eyes seemed to implore, and Launcelot was not 
slow to take the hint. 

“ Don’t be lugubrious. Jack ; you shall have time to get used 
to the idea. I am not taking Dorothea away from you now. 
Nothing is further from my intention, or from hers either. 
She is very young, as you say ; we will wait a little. That is 
your meaning, is it not, dear ? that I am to leave you with him 
for a time?” 

“ Yes,” she answered, shyly, “ that is what I meant.” 

“ Oh, I could read your thoughts. Well, next week you shall 

f o to the cottage. Your father will not object to my visits, eh, 
ack ? I am to have my nights, as Dorothea’s fiance f Well, 
that will satisfy me for a time ; we need not talk about any- 
thing else just now.” 

“ What !” exclaimed Jack, staring at him. “ Do you mean 
that Dossie and I are really going to have the cottage, — that 
you don’t mean to take her away at once?” 

“ Of course not,” returned Dorothea, but she blushed beau- 
tifully. “ Father dear, how can you talk so to Mr. Lance? I 
am not going to be married for a long time. I am going to 
take care of you, and make you happy, and Mr. Lance will 
come and see us. How could you think I could leave you 
just as you have come home to me?” — and Jack allowed him- 
self to be soothed. 

“Dorothea takes matters very coolly, upon my word,” said 
Launcelot to himself. “ ‘ I am not going to be married for a 
long time.’ Humph ! there are two people to be considered. 
I shall have to talk to her on the subject.” Nevertheless, 
Launcelot yielded for the present with a good grace, and Jack 
recovered his good humor. After all, it was only an engage- 
ment ; he would have his little girl to himself for a long time. 


878 


ONLY TEE GOVERNESS. 


He had always made up his mind that Dossie would marry 
one day, and he would rather see her Launcelot’s wife than 
give lier to any other man. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

LAUNCELOT’S FIANCEE. 

** I love her with a love as still 
As a broad river’s peaceful might, 

Which, by high tower and lowly mill. 

Goes wandering at its own will. 

And yet doth ever flow aright.’’ 

Lowell. 

As soon as they arrived at the Witchens Dorothea went 
up quietly to her room ; like Launcelot, she felt she must be 
alone for a time to look her new happiness in the face, and tc 
realize the importance of the step she had taken. 

In spite of her youth and inexperience, and the simplicity 
that guided her actions, Dorothea was grave by nature and 
her feelings were unusually deep ; from a child Launcelot had 
been the object of her love and reverence, but she had been 
unconscious of the real nature of her feelings. The childish 
worship had developed gradually into the woman^s deep, ad- 
miring affection, and quiet and outwardly calm as she was, she 
was inwardly overwhelmed by her happiness. Launcelot, 
who had taken her hand for a moment as they stood in the 
hall, felt it tremble in his, and looking at her he saw she was 
still pale. Most likely Jack^s talk had unnerved her. 

“Would you not like to be quiet a little he said, inter- 
preting her feelings rightly. “I am going to Madella, but 
there is no reason why you should not retire to your room 
and Dorothea had gratefully availed herself of the permis- 
sion. 

But as she closed her door and sat down by the open window, 
she told herself that she could not yet realize the wonderful 
thing that had happened to her. It seemed incredible to her 
humility that she was to be Mr. Lancets wife, that the child 
Dossie should attain to such an honor as that. 

“ Whatljould he see in me?^^ thought Dorothea, quite ob- 
livious of the sweet gifts of her girlhood, that were precious in 
the eyes of a man like Launcelot. “ I am not even pretty, I 
have never said or done anything particularly clever. I am 
full of faults, and am inexperienced and childish, and he — he 
is everything that is good and noble. How am I ever to jus- 
tify his choice and to make myself worthy of him ? and yet 
no one could love him so well,^^ finished Dorothea, with a 


LAUNCELOT’S FIANCEE. 


b79 


flood of womanly pride and tenderness that promised well for 
Launcelot^s future. 

Launcelot, in his hasty impulse and in the almost exagger- 
ated blindness of his heart, had brought things to a swift con- 
clusion. Dorothea had fascinated him, she had stirred his 
heart to unusual tenderness, and he felt himself justified in 
promising a life’s devotion. If he had had time to argue out 
the matter with himself in black and white, he would have 
said most truthfully that, though he did not feel himself capa- 
ble of another strong passion, and though the fever-dream of 
his love for Joan had left him somewhat arid and dry, he was 
still capable of warm, deep attachment, such as befitted mid- 
dle age, — a calm, tranquil affection which would be none the 
less satisfying because it did not experience the cold and hot 
fits of youth. 

Launcelot had method in his madness, he had not thrown 
himself away on a mere dream, a chimera. Neither did he 
make himself the victim of a hazardous experiment ; he had 
acted on impulse, but he conscientiously believed that he had 
done the right thing. 

“Dorothea will never disappoint me,” had been his inward 
conviction. “ If the love be greater on her side she will never 
know it,” had also been a concluding thought. “ I am so fond 
of her now, I have watched her so closely, she has interested 
me so thoroughly, these five weeks that I know my love will 
grow ; every day I find new beauties in her character, every 
day she surprises me by some little trait which I think charm- 
ing. It is true I never thought of marrying her until that 
ridiculous spinster put it into my head, but then marrying 
has not been in my thoughts lately, — all the same, Doro- 
thea is the only woman I could marry. I am fastidious, 
difficult to please, but a fine and delicate nature like Doro- 
thea’s will never jar upon me. I know her to be unselfish ; 
she has tact, finesse, discrimination. I shall not be dull in 
her society ; when I am down or hipped, she will soothe and 
not rasp me. I am so sure of all this that if it were not for 
Jack I would marry her to-morrow sooner than let her leave 
the Witchens ; but no, that would not suit Dorothea ; she has 
her father to consider.” 

Launcelot was becoming more satisfied with himself and 
his fiancee every minute, but then his natural impulsiveness 
w^as always capable of these swift conclusions, and it was 
with a very bright face that he shortly afterwards entered 
the morning-room, interrupting Pauline, who was just in the 
midst of her interesting narration. 

“ Oh, Launce, where have you been?” observed Mrs. Chud- 
leigh, reproachfully. “ Fenwick has been searching the house 
for you, I wanted you to hear about dear Pauline ; she and 
Hedley have settled matters so nicely.” 

“ I am delighted to hear it, Paul. ‘ It is a long lane that 
has no turning.’ You rr ay tell Maxwell that. Well, you 


380 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


both deserve to be happy and then he added, quietly, You 
are setting us a good example, and Dorothea and I mean to 
follow it. We are going to make a match of it, Madella.” 

It would be impossible to describe Mrs. Chudleigh^s amaze- 
ment and rapture when Launcelot said this. For the first 
minute she believed he was joking, though it had never been 
his habit to make this sort of joke ; but when he convinced 
her that he was serious, that he had really proposed to Doro- 
tliea and been accepted by her, and that in spite of his old- 
bachelor proclivities he fully intended to become a married 
man before many months were over, no words seemed ade- 
quate to express her joy. 

“Oh, Launce,’^ she said, tearfully, “I only wanted this to 
make me perfectly happy ; it is my one wish to see you mar- 
ried. You an old bachelor ! you with the utmost scorn at 
the idea. 

“You think I shall make Dorothea a good husband he 
returned, seriously. 

“ Yes, indeed ; and she will be a happy woman and then 
she added, “ but it is your choice that delights me, — Dorothea 
is perfect. 

“ Come now,^^ he said, wfith a very bright expression, “ this 
is very pleasant hearing. I was half of the same opinion my- 
self, but it is agreeable to know that our opinions coincide 
and he went on a little mischievously, for he knew his step- 
mother’s weak point, “ I was half afraid that you might tell 
me that you did not consider Dorothea pretty, — not a fine 
woman, you understand.” 

“No, but she can look lovely at times, and she is always 
charming. Do you know, Launce,” with a shrewd look, 
“ that the idea came into my head that night of your return ? 
Don’t you remember Dorothea coming into the room, looking 
such a darling in her white dress ? I saw you quite start, as 
though it were a strange young lady, and not Dorothea at all. 
And you did not kiss her as usual, though you had been ab- 
sent eighteen months, and you had always treated her like 
Sybil, and I said to myself then, ‘ Suppose Launce takes a 
fancv to her, seeing her look so sweet and pretty !’ ” 

“Yes, I was very much struck with her,” he answered, 
slowly ; and then he said to himself, “No, I did not kiss her. 
She would not have liked it ; she gave me her hand like a 
princess; she looked very dainty and unapproachable, and 
all her kisses were for Jack. She has not given me one yet,” 
with a sudden remembrance that his position commanded 
certain privileges. 

“ I think she will suit you perfectly,” went on Mrs. Chud- 
leigh, quite oblivious of her daughter’s affairs ; and, indeed, 
Pauline, with the unselfishness that belonged to her nature, 
had at once withdrawn into the background. “You are not 
easily satisfied, Launce, or you would not have waited for a 
wife until you were nearly forty.” 


LAUNCELOT^S FIANCJ^E, 


881 


“Don^t you remember, mother, broke in Pauline at this 
point, “how Bee once said that Launcelot w'as so fastidious 
that she did not know how he would ever find a girl to suit 
him, and that he had better train his future wife from a child, 
Launce was so ridiculous about it?^^ 

“You see the plan has answered excellently,^^ returned 
Launcelot, with a droll look. “ Dorothea is not an orphan, 
but she h-as no mother, and she was a mere child when she 
came to the Witchens, and of course I have inoculated her 
with all my pet theories.” 

“I don^t believe anything of the kind,” replied Pauline, 
with her old bluntness. “Dorothea is one to think for her- 
self ; she is easily guided through her affections, but she holds 
strong opinions and is slow to yield them; she will listen 
meekly to your arguments, Launce, but I am not so sure she 
will yield a blind faith in everything.” 

“But where is the dear child?” asked Mrs. Chudleigh at 
this point ; “ surely you will bring her to me ?” Then Launce- 
lot promised to go in search of her presently, and then he 
plunged into a discussion about the cottage, and Jack^s whim, 
that must be gratified at all costs, — “ for do you know, Ma- 
della,” he observed quite seriously, “I do not believe Doro- 
thea would ever have promised to marry me if I had not given 
in about the cottage.” 

Mrs. Chudleigh scouted Jack^s idea as absurd ; why need he 
disturb them when they were all so comfortable, and when 
every one knew that Dorothea could not bear to leave the 
Witchens ? But Launcelot did not agree in this. 

“He could wait,” he said: “they could very well wait. 
Dorothea was very young to be the mistress of a house like 
the Witchens ; it would be better for her to have a little more 
experience ;” and then he added tenderly, “ I do not half 
like the idea of robbing you of your honors, Madella, you 
have been our liege lady so long.” 

“Nonsense, Launce!” she returned, good-humoredly, for 
this notion did not trouble her in the least. “ I shall abdicate 
most willingly for your wife, my dear, and there are plenty 
of houses to be found for Sybil and me.” 

“Plenty of fiddlesticks!” was the wrathful answer. “I 
wonder what Dorothea would say if she heard you ? DonT 
you know us better, Madella? You and I will never part, I 
am sure of that. As for Sybil, if I know anything of that, 
young lady, she will not long remain at the Witchens. No, 
we shall be a quartette, Dorothea and myself and Jack and 
you, and if the house is not big enough to hold us and our 
quarrels” — but here his sentence remained unfinished, for at 
that moment Dorothea came quietly into the room. It was so 
late, and they had talked so long, that she had already dressed 
for dinner, and perhaps she had wondered a little that no one 
had come in search of her. Launcelot met her at once. 

“My dear Dorothea,” he said, “you will have thought us 


882 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


very remiss, but I would not let Madella disturb you, foi 1 
knew it was quiet that you wanted and not talk and then 
he looked at her very earnestly, so that her color changed a 
little, and kissed her gravely on her lips. 

“No one shall have his rights before I have mine,^^ he said 
quietly, and then he took her to his step-mother. 

It was evident that Dorothea was very much moved, but 
she took Mrs. Chudleigh^s caresses and kind words with her 
usual tranquillity. 

“ I am glad you and Pauline are pleased, she said, in a low 
voice. “ I did not dare to ask myself how you would feel 
about this.^^ 

“And your father is pleased too, my dear?^^ 

“Oh, yes, father is pleased; how can he help it?” with a 
shy glance at Launcelot ; “ but he is too much afraid of losing 
me to realize his pleasure just now. I know father’s way ; he 
is really delighted, but he must have his grumble out first.” 

“ Yes, that is so like Jack.” 

“ Other people beside Jack can talk nonsense,” returned 
Launcelot. “ What do you think, Dorothea ?” — for he wanted 
to make her look at him again, and he did not wish her to be 
shy with him,— “ Madella is talking of leaving the Witchens ; 
she thinks there will not be room for her and Sybil when u 
certain young lady comes here as mistress. Half a dozen 
rooms apiece will not satisfy her. What do you say, Doro- 
thea? this is for you to decide.” 

“ I think there will be plenty of time to decide that pres- 
ently,” returned the girl, quietly ; but he could not get her 
to look at him, and then she took Mrs. Chudleigh’s hand 
and kissed it. “ I think. Aunt Della,” she said, “ that if you 
go away there will be no mistress at all, that there will be no 
young person to come as interloper, — it is my idea that she 
will refuse to come under such circumstances.” 

“I told you so, Madella,” returned Launcelot, in a con- 
tented voice. “ We have been engaged just three hours, — 
and by Jove there is the gong, and none of us are ready for 
dinner, — and yet Dorothea and I think alike on every 
subject !” 

Then she did look at him. “ I am not so sure about that, 
Mr. Lance,” she said, quietly; “I do not think Pauline 
would agree with you,” and then they all dispersed in a great 
hurry. 

Dorothea bore her new honors very meekly. Perhaps she 
found her'^osition a little difficult at first. Launcelot mani 
fested a decided disposition to take full advantage of his 
right to monopolize her as much as possible, and it was not 
always easy to satisfy him and not to neglect her father ; 
but Jack, who had been accusing himself of selfishness, 
showed great magnanimity, and as Dorothea had plenty of 
tact, she soon contrived to adjust their claims with tolerable 
satisfaction to them both. 


LAUNCELOT^S FlANCtlE, 


383 


She seldom walked or rode alone with Launcelot, but 
neither of them minded Jack^s compaL.y. When Launcelot 
wanted Dorothea to himself, he would fetch her for a quiet 
talk in the studio or on the terrace. “ Yes, go with Launce,^^ 
Jack would say ; “I shall do very well alone. But often 
when they left him he would go to the window and watch 
them until they were out of sight. “ Bless her heart, how 
happy she looks he would murmur. “ I wish Pen could 
see her little girl now I She promises to be as sweet a woman 
as her mother was.^^ But Jack in his loyalty to his dead wife 
erred a little, — Dorothea was likely to become a sweeter woman 
than her mother. Pen^s gentle, tranquil nature had not Doro- 
thea's mingled strength and delicacy ; her fine intelligence 
had been lacking to Pen^s simplicity. 

If Launcelot was not a very ardent lover, certainly Dorothea 
found nothing lacking in his devotion. His tenderness for 
her was almost reverential. The knowledge that this young 
creature had placed herself and her lifers happiness in his 
hands invested his position with a sacred sense of responsi- 
bility, and his chief pleasure was to study and gratify her 
wishes. 

Every dav his young betrothed made herself more necessary 
to him. ller freshness, her ndiveiA^ a certain fund of origin- 
ality inherent in her, delighted and refreshed him. There 
was nothing crude or mawkish about her excessive sensibility ; 
the womanly reserve under which she veiled her deep feelings 
satisfied his fastidiousness. He was demonstrative by nature, 
and it pleased him that the love-making should be on his side. 
After that first unconscious self-betrayal, Dorothea spoke very 
little of her own feelings. 

Two or three days after their engagement, he took her to 
Spring Mead to receive their friends^ congratulations. Mr. 
Thorpe was out, but Joan, who was gathering roses in the 
front garden, dropped her basket and went forward to meet 
them with outstretched hands. 

“Is this allegorical, Mrs. Thorpe asked Launcelot, 
quaintly^ as the crimson and creamy roses rolled to his 
feet. “ Dorothea, our friends are prophesying a path of roses 
for us; let us hope there will be few thorns to prick our 
fingers.^ ^ 

“ Oh, nothing is too good for you both exclaimed Joan, 
taking the blushing girl in her arms. “ Mr. Chudleigh, Ivan 
has been writing to you ; he is coming to the Witchens this 
evening to congratulate you both. He was so excited wh3n 
he read your letter! Indeed, I never saw Ivan so excited 
about anything.” 

“That is very strange, when Dorothea and I take it so 
quietly,” returned Launcelot ; but Dorothea, who was picking 
lip the roses, took no notice of this speech, neither did she see 
the bright understanding look that passed between him and 
Joan. And then after a little more talk, and when Launcelot 


884 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


had made her promise to come up to the Witchens with hei 
husband, they went to RachePs room. 

Miss Thorpe greeted them more quietly, but Launcel 3t, who 
understood her, saw that she was much affected. '‘This is 
kind, to come to me so soon,^’ she said, taking both their 
hands ; “ you knew how I should want to see you.’^ 

It was Dorothea who proposed it,^^ returned Launcelot ; 
‘‘I wrote to Thorpe, but it was she who said you would be 
looking for us. Dorothea always does think of things. I ex- 
pect to be spared every kind of trouble in the future,” he 
finished, contentedly. 

“ Miss Rachel, it is Mr. Lancets way to say this sort of thing, 
but he knows that we shall not believe him.” 

“ Do you think it right of Dorothea to call me Mr. Lance?” 
he returned, mischievously. ‘‘I have remonstrated with her 
once or twice, but it is of no use. Dorothea declares that she 
does not know me under any other name, but I tell her people 
will think it so strange.” 

“ Mr. Lance knows that I must have time to get used to any 
other nami?,” replied Dorothea, softly; “it is what I have 
called him from a child.” 

“ Yes, of course ; and it seems to you a sort of liberty to use 
any other,” returned Rachel, much amused at this. 

“ But it is a liberty I hope she will soon take,” was the reply. 
“ What is the use of having a young woman, if the young 
woman persists in keeping one at a distance?” Then Doro- 
thea fiashed a look at him, and her dimple came in play. At 
such moments she looked almost lovely. 

Rachel lay and watched them, but she said very little until 
Dorothea went in search of baby Gwen, and thbn she said, 
very earnestly, “How she has grown ! I must tell you, Mr. 
Chudleigh, that I have always hoped for this.” 

“ Hoped for this— for Dorothea, do you mean?” in a tone of 
surprise. 

“Yes, indeed ; when I saw her growing up and developing 
day by day into such a fine intelligent creature, I said to my- 
self, ‘ This is the girl to suit Mr. Chudleigh, if he could only 
bring himself to think so ; she will make him just the wife he 
wants. ^ ” 

“And I have done the right thing?” 

“I think so, and Ivan thinks so, and we know something 
about human nature. Dorothea is young, but her character 
is wonderfully formed ; she is very womanly, and she loves 
you with her whole heart.” 

“I believe you,” he returned, in a moved voice, but not 
even to this tried friend did he find it easy to speak of his be- 
trothed, — he had a notion that silence befitted the subject best. 
He was very happy, very satisfied, and Dorothea was daily 
growing sweeter to him. She was much to him, and he knew 
that she would be more as time went on, but he did not care to 
talk of his affection to any one but her ; and though it pleased 


LAUNCELOT'S FIANCt!E. 


385 


him to know that his friends approved his choice, he liked to 
find out her beauties himself, — that shy, soft unfolding of her- 
self was her chief charm in his eyes. 

He was astonished and dismayed to find how he missed her 
when, a fortnight after their engagement, Dorothea and her 
father left the Witchens and took possession of the cottage. 
Dorothea, with all her passionate love for Launcelot, was far 
more contented than he under the circumstances ; the knowl- 
edge that she would qne day return as its mistress satisfied 
and made her happy in the present. 

As for Jack, he revelled in that cottage ; at last he had his 
little girl wholly to himself. Jack smoked endless pipes and 
really painted a good picture, while Dorothea busied herself in 
her simple housekeeping duties or work beside him. After 
all, Launcelot and she were not separated. Dorothea and her 
father dined once or twice a week at the Witchens, and no 
day passed without a visit, however brief, from Launcelot. 
Dorothea did not share her lover^s restlessness ; nevertheless, 
it gave her an exquisite sensation of pleasure to know that 
her presence was wanting to his happiness. Launcelot com- 
plained that the drawing-room looked empty in the evening, 
and that he could not always leave his step-mother and come 
down to the cottage. And there was Pauline, too, preparing 
for her marriage, and he liked to be with her as much as pos- 
sible. 

“ This sort of branch establishment is a failure, after all,^^ 
he grumbled. “ I don^t believe you care for it yourself, Doro- 
thea ; it is only Jack who delights in these poky little rooms. 
Why can^t you come up and dine to-night? Maxwell is com- 
ing, and I think Thorpe and his wife, and we shall be a nice 
little party. Do come, dear.^^ 

“Not to-night,” she answered, seriously. “Father and I 
have planned to work in the garden, and we have been twice 
to the Witchens already this week. No, you must not press 
me, for I always like to please you, and to-night I must stay 
with my father,” — and then she dropped her voice, — “ it is the 
day mother died, and father would like best to be quiet.” 

“ Oh, of course, in that case. Why did you not tell me that 
before, Dorothea? Well, he shall have you to himself, but 
to-morrow afternoon I cannot ride with you : I have an en- 
gagement with Mapleson.” 

“Then it cannot be helped,” but she certainly looked dis- 
appointed. “Never mind, father and I will have a long 
country ride, and perhaps” — a little wistfully — “ we shall see 
you in the evening.” 

“Oh, yes ; I will come across for an hour after dinner,” he 
returned, looking very much gratified, for she did not often 
ask him to come, and, indeed, he gave her little occasion for 
such a request. “ It is not often that you let me see that I am 
wanted.” 

“ Indeed, I always want you,” she returned, earnestly, “ but 
B 2 83 


386 


ONLY THE QOVERNES^i. 


I think you know that, Launcelot for she had learned to 
call him by that name, though she still used it shyly. And 
she was right — Launcelot did know it. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

JEMMY STOKESES ERRAND. 

“ If woman was heaven’s last new gift, the ever-new delight of man, u 
was because of her gentleness. That is properly the ‘strong enforce- 
ment’ of the sex.”— Ward. 

“ Half unbelieving doth my heart remain 
Of its great woe ; 

1 waken, and a dull dead sense of pain 
Is all I know.” 

Trench. 

It was on a lovely August morning that Pauline was 
married. Mrs. Chudleigh had agreed to Dr. MaxwelPs re- 
quest, and the wedding was a very quiet one. Only Bee and 
her husband, and Geoffr^ and his wife, and Bernard's pretty 
little fiancee Elsie, and Jack Weston and Dorothea, were the 
invited guests. Bernard and Fred were of course up for the 
vacation. A cousin of Dr. Maxwell had performed the cere- 
mony, and another cousin, a young barrister, had acted as 
best man. 

Mrs. Chudleigh had been perfectly reasonable, and had 
agreed to everything, but on one point she had remained firm. 
Pauline's trousseau must be equal to her sister's ; and though 
the bride-elect remonstrated and urged very sensibly that her 
position was different from Bee's, and that she was going to 
marry a poor man, Mrs. Chudleigh insisted on having her 
own way. 

“ Indeed, mother dear," pleaded Pauline, “ you and Launce- 
lot are far too generous. Of course I wish my things to be 
nice, Hedley is so particular about dress, and 1 should never 
care to be shabby. But we cannot afford to entertain people 
so what can I want with all those pretty dinner-dresses?" 

“Nonsense, Pauline !" returned her mother, ingenuously; 
“dear Hedley is so exceedingly clever that his practice in- 
creases every day. He says himself that his income is now 
sufficient Iqr moderate coinfort. So you will not be so poor." 

“ No, but we shall have to be very "careful," replied Pauline. 
“ Besides, Hedley has always been quiet in his tastes, and 
does not care for gayety under any circumstances." 

“But all the same he must mix in society; you must not 
let him rust. And then you will be here a good deal. You 
see, Pauline," went on Mrs. Chudleigh, seriously, “ Bernard 
really means to settle at Christmas, and I don't suppose 
Launcelot will wait beyond the spring. When Dorothea 


JEMMY STOKESES ERRAND. 


887 


comes here we shall be sure to have a good deal of company. 
Launcelot likes society, and he is very hospitable ; and I think 
Dorothea enjoys it too in her quiet way. And so you will 
want all your pretty dresses for the Witchens.” 

** Very well, mother dear ; you shall have your way. I 
know Hedley will like to see me look nice.^^ 

“There is only one thing that troubles me,^^ went on her 
mother after a short interval, “ but I know it cannot be 
helped, and you and Hedley will make the best of it, — I sup- 
pose poor dear Brenda and Charlotte must always live at 
Bridge House. 

Pauline looked up in unfeigned surprise. 

“Why, mpther darling, you talk as though Hedley and 1 
sliould find them burdensome.” 

“ WelL my dear, most newly-married people prefer to be 
alone. Of course I know what you are going to say, — that it 
will be just the same with Launce and Dorothea. But just 
think of the difference. This house is so big that we shall 
each have our apartments ; we shall only meet at meals or in 
the evening, and not then unless we wish it. Dorothea is to 
have a charming boudoir made for her out of the morning- 
room, and your uncle Jack will hwe the old school-room. 
Launce thinks the library that the >oys used could be turned 
into a pleasant sitting-room for Sybil and myself, and the 
dining-room and drawing-room will be neutral ground. Be- 
sides, Dorothea will have her husband^s studio ; he means to 
have a corner expressly fitted up for her use. He and I have 
planned everything. Your uncle Jack will have quite a suite 
of rooms for his use. I think you and Bee will hardly know 
the Witchens. Launce means to have all Dorothea's rooms 
refurnished, — he is busy now planning their decorations ; I 
assure you the morning-room will be lovely.” 

“Yes, but, mother, Launce is so rich. But I think Hedley 
and I will be quite as happy,” returned Pauline, with a bright 
smile. “ Hedley and Charlotte have done the best they could 
with small means, and I do not in the least require a sitting- 
room for my own use. I shall see my friends in the drawing- 
room, and when the curtains are closed it forms two rooms, 
and Brenda will always remain in the inner one. I could not 
trouble her with all my callers ; and if I want a quiet corner 
there is Hedley^s study. Charlotte has made it so comfortable ; 
there is a special chair and a little table for my use. So you see 
I need not envy Dorothea.” 

“ I don’t think you ever envy any one, my darling,” returned 
her mother, fondly. 

“No, indeed, I would not be so wicked. I am so happy at 
the thought of spending my life with Hedley that I can tnink 
of nothing else ; and as for Brenda, I love her far too much to 
regard her in the light of a burthen.” 

“True, dear, and Charlotte will be her nurse.” 

“ Yes, Charlotte will be head-nurse, but I mean to take my 


388 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


share. I shall like to be alone with Hedley sometimes ; and 
of course that is natural, but I do not think that I shall ever 
find my sisters in the way.^^ And Pauline proved the truth 
of these words, for the household at Bridge House was a very 
himpy one. 

Young Mrs. Maxwell was fully contented with her lot ; the 
happiest woman in the world, she often called herself. She 
and Hedley were not without their cares. What human lot 
is exempt from anxiety? Pauline had to see her husband 
work hard, and for some years only a moderate degree of suc- 
cess rewarded his efforts. He had plenty of patients, but many 
of these belonged to the poorer class, and Dr. Maxwell, who 
was one of the most benevolent of men, often worked for love’s 
sake. Hedley did not become a rich man speedily. Indeed, 
at no time in his life could he be regarded as specially wealthy ; 
and Pauline, with a young family growing up round her, 
would have need of all lier prudent foresigh tedness and un- 
selfish precaution. But it might be said with all truth that 
the heart of her husband safely trusted in her, and indeed no 
wife was ever more entirely her husband’s friend. “ Hedley 
and Pauline always think alike,” Charlotte would say. “ If 
we ask one, we are sure of knowing the other’s opinion. No 
two people ever were more similar. I never noticed this be- 
fore they were married, but Pauline seems to have grown to 
Hedley somehow.” 

“ Pauline is a pattern wife,” observed Launcelot, when this 
speech was retailed to him ; “ she always sees with her hus- 
band’s eyes, and agrees with him in everything. I always 
hold her up as an example to Dorothea. I am grieved to tell 
you, Madella, that Dorothea contradicted me twice yesterday ; 
indeed, we had quite an animated discussion !” 

“My dear Launce, Dorothea is not your wife yet; you 
surely do not exact a blind obedience,” but Launcelot’s eyes 
twinkled. 

“Blind obedience does not belong to Dorothea’s nature, 
somehow. Unhappily for me, she has what people call an 
inquiring mind ; she has a knack of putting awkward ques- 
tions that one finds difficult to answer.” 

“ Well, well, a little contradiction is good for all of us,” re- 
turned his step-mother, tranquilly, for she was perfectly satis- 
fied with Dorothea’s behavior to Launcelot, “and you know 
you are dreadfully spoilt, Launce.” 

“ ‘ What is the use of spending all that money on a room 
where I afit never to sit?’— those were her words, Madella. 

It is more fit for the queen than for me ; I never saw any- 
thing more lovely. And yet I am to be always in the studio,, 
and there is a writing-table and a work-table put there for my 
use, and father says he shall expect to see me sometimes, and 
yet no one else must use that room.’ ” 

“ Well, my dear, I think that was a very sensible remark.” 

“ Madella,” observed Launcelot, in an exasperated voire, 


JEMMl STOKESES ERRAND, 


m 


“ how is there to be peace in the house if you take my wife^a 
part against me? I have noticed before that, in your opinion, 
Dorothea's remarks have always been sensible. Dorothea has 
already a pretty good ojpinion of herself, and your injudicious 
partiality does not tend to teach her humility. 

What was your answer then, Launce?'^ asked his step- 
mother, smiling. 

Well, of course I was very firm with her. Dorothea re- 
quires firmness. I pointed out to her that a man likes to en- 
joy his wife^s society sometimes, and that I had never cared 
especially for solitude. * Oh, I know that/ she said, quickly, 
* and, indeed, I do not wish to leave you alone / but, of course, 
I would not allow that speech to mollify me. Dorothea knows 
how to temper her bitterness with honey. 

“Bitterness, my dear Launce ! Dorothea has the sweetest 
disposition possible but he waived this remark aside loftily. 

“ ‘ The morning-room or boudoir, or whatever you please to 
call it,^ I returned, 4s for young Mrs. Chudleigh^s use when 
she has sulked with her husband, — a very probable contin- 
gency, — or wishes to receive her friends privately. Sybil, who 
has not yet achieved a matrimonial prize, I am sorry to say, 
has a bad habit of strumming on the grand piano-forte, and I 
have noticed that tranquillity is essential to your comfort, so 
you will allow me to suggest^ — but I will spare you the re- 
mainder of my speech, though I am grieved to say Dorothea 
said I talked a great deal of nonsense. 

“ Well, so you do, Launce, but it is nonsense that Dorothea 
and I love, and, of course, the dear child was full of gratitude 
for all your thoughtfulness ; for indeed no girl could be more 
studied, and it is only her goodness that prevents her being 
thoroughly spoiled but Launcelot only laughed and looked 
a little guilty. 

Launcelot^s engagement had gone on smoothly for some 
months ; Bernard had had his way, and he and his pretty 
little Elsie had been married early in the new year ; the lugu- 
brious Fred had taken deacon^s orders at the same time, and 
had betaken himself to dingy lodgings at Bethnal Green, 
leaving only Sybil to represent the family. Launcelot spent 
the winter cheerfully, working at a new picture and superin- 
tending the redecoration of the rooms intended for Dorothea's 
use. Many of the other rooms were painted and refurnished, 
and at one time the discomfort of workmen obliged Mrs. 
Chudleigh and Sybil to migrate to Hastings for a few weeks, 
but still Jack and Dorothea led their peaceful life at the cot- 
tage, and Dorothea had made no preparations for her mar- 
riage. 

When spring came, Mrs. Chudleigh felt herself a little puz- 
zled at the delay, and one day she asked Launcelot when he 
and Dorothea meant to be married. 

Launcelot, who was painting, laid down his paktte and 
looked his step-mother calmly in the face. 

‘38* 


390 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS 


“ Upon my word, Madella, I don^t know. I was only 
thinking yesterday that Jack had had his innings: it is my 
turn now. He has had her to himself for more than nine 
months.” 

‘‘You take it very coolly, Launce.” 

“ I was thinking so myself,” he returned, with perfect equa- 
nimity ; then, as he saw her perplexed look, he continued 
seriously, “The delay is not on my side. I would have mar- 
ried Dorothea most willingly within a month of our engage- 
ment, but she could not be brought round to my view of the 
subject, and in a weak moment I promised that she should 
have a yearns freedom. You see, Madella, Dorothea was so 
very young and Jack was not willing to let her settle, and so 
I was bound to respect their wishes.” 

“ Yes, but the year will be up in July.” 

“ I was just pointing out that fact to Dorothea this morn- 
ing. I told her that I should hold her strictly to her bond, 
and I must confess that she heard me with great attention. 
I gave her to understand that August was my favorite month 
abroad, and that I had undertaken to show her Switzerland, 
but she would not let me go on. She said she must speak to 
you and Jack, and give me her answer to-morrow.” 

“ Oh, no wonder you take it coolly ! Of course, things are 
as good as settled. Dorothea will do exactly what you wish • 
and, Launce, I must say that you have been very good and 
patient. Few young men would have been so unselfish.” 

“ I think Dorothea will have a model husband,” he returned, 
tranquilly, throwing back his head to look at his picture. “ 1 
hope she will appreciate her blessings properly.” Then Mrs. 
Chudleigh laughed, and told him that he was in an absurd 
mood, and then proposed that she should walk over to the 
cottage and interview Dorothea on the important subject. 

“ I am afraid you will find the cottage empty,” he replied. 
“ Jack has asked Dorothea to ride with him. 1 have to drive 
into town for an hour, so I could not accompany them.” 

“Never mind ; I will write a little note and tell them to 
come up to dinner, and then we can arrange things comfort- 
ably.” 

“Ah, that is a good idea,” he returned, cheerfully ; “ they 
have not dined here for a week.” Then Mrs. Chudleigh said 
she would write the note at once, and Launcelot set to work 
again vigorously. But there was a bright look upon his face, 
and he whistled a few bars in his old light-hearted fashion as 
he painted in a fresh fold of drapery, and the tune was the old 
Scotch air of “ My love she^s but a lassie yet,” for it pleased 
him to know that he would soon have his young wife to sit 
beside him. “ I think I have been tolerably patient,” he said 
to himself. “ I was a little restless at first when they went to 
the cottage, and I missed Dorothea very badly, but things 
have gone better lately. I think we understand each other 
more every day. She is not so shy with me, and— well, I dare 


JEMMY STOKES'S ERRAND. 


391 


«ay I am fonder of her. After all, I am glad I gave in to 
Jack^s whims. She is so grateful, poor little darling, and is 
always saying that she must make it up to me in the future.” 

Launcelot was making light of his own unselfishness, but 
he was not a young man now, and so long an engagement 
was hardly to his taste. He would have liked a quick court- 
ship, and then to have settled down contentedly, but Jack 
was not ready to part with his little girl, and Dorothea, as 
usual, effaced her own wishes for his sake. “A little waiting 
will not hurt us, when we are to spend our lives together,” 
she once said to Launcelot, but Launcelot had pointed to the 
streaks of gray in his dark hair. 

“ You are not marrying a young man, my dear,” he said, a 
little sadly. “ I think in spite of my philosophy I should be 
glad to shorten my probation,” and Dorothea had bean a little 
moved by this. If she had thought only of her own wish she 
would gladly have been his wife. “ He does not know how I 
love him ! I never seem able to tell him,” she said to herself 
as he left her. “ I know he thinks me young, he is always 
telling me so, but I have never been too young to understand 
him.” 

Launcelot was in a very merry mood at luncheon that day, 
and as Mrs. Chudleigh watched him drive oflT in his phae- 
ton, she told herself that things were going well with her 
boy. 

“ I have not seen him look like that since Joan left us,” and 
then she sighed at the remembrance of those sombre days. 
“ I think he did not get over it for years,” she said to herself ; 
“ he was as hardly hit as any man could be, but I am sure 
Dorothea makes him happy. He was not in love with her at 
first, but I am convinced that he is now. I could see his ex- 
pression as he talked about their marriage. I think the delay 
has fretted him a little.” 

Launcelot drove himself into town, and did his business, 
and then set his face homewards, with a pleased consciousness 
that he had done his work well, and that an evening^s enjoy- 
ment was before him. 

‘‘ I shall leave Madella to talk to Jack,” he said, “ but Doro- 
thea must come with me on the terrace. It will be a lovely 
evening, and I must have her to myself for a little, and then 
we can finish our talk. Halloa there !” — and Launcelot, who 
had been lost in dreamy anticipation, roused himself, and 
pulled up his mare pretty sharply as a boy crossed the road, 
at full speed, after the usual heedless habits of his class. 

“Now then, you young rascal!” he called out, for he was 
given to bullying these young oflenders, and frightening them 
out of their small wits. “Why, it is Jemmy Stokes, — what 
do you mean, you little monkey, by running in front of Ruby 
like that ? Do you know I might have driven over you, and 
serve you right too?” 

“ Please, Mr. (^Jhudleigh, sir, I never saw Ruby at all. I 


392 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


was just out of breath with running. Orson was out and— • 
and Mr. Fenwick, he says, ‘ Bun for Dr. Higgenbotham, Jem, 
he is the handiest doctor, and tell him to come up sharps — 
and I have been, and he is driving up the hill, but la ! it ainH 
no manner of use, the poor young lady is dead ! I seed her 
myself.” And here Jemmy began to blubber, and drew the 
sleeve of his jacket across his eyes. 

“What on earth do you mean, child? Has there been an 
accident? How am I to know what young lady you are talk- 
ing about?” 

“ Please, sir, it is Miss Dorothea. She was out riding with 
her father” — and then he stopped aghast at the result of his 
words, for Launcelot had sprung out of the phaeton, and was 
standing over him, shaking him by the collar, and his face 
was as^white as a sheet. Jem began to blubber again. 

“Leave off that noise, sir, and tell me what you mean,” 
said Launcelot, sternly ; and Jem, in spite of natural obtuse- 
ness, saw he was in no mood to be trifled with. 

“ Please, sir, I was in the front court along with mother, 
and I seed it myself. There warn’t no horses at all, only a 
four-wheeler, and Mr. Weston had Miss Dorothea in his arms, 
and she were in her riding-habit, and her arms were dropped, 
and she looked awful, and mother gave a screech. ‘ Why, she 
is dead, Jem !' she says : and then Mr. Fenwick comes out 
and gives me a shove. ‘Go to Dr. Higgenbotham sharp,^ he 
says, — and off I runs.” 

Launcelot did not answer, but he mechanically let go the 
boy^s jacket, and then, jumping into the phaeton, gave the 
astonished mare a cut with his whip that sent her up the hill 
dancing on three legs. In fact, most people stopped to look 
after them, thinking Ruby had run away, but she was only 
indulging in an ill-tempered gallop. 

As for Launcelot, he neld the reins in his numb hands and 
sat up stiffly, looking straight before him, and perfectly ob- 
livious of Buby^s antics, though the groom was holding on 
behind. 

“ I cannot bear this !— I donT see that I have any right to 
bear it !” he muttered between his teeth. “There are limits 
to a man^s endurance. Dorothea — my own little Dorothea- 
dead !” And yet he was not conscious that he thought any- 
thing at all ; only a veil seemed to fall from his eyes, and the 
great rush of pain and heart-sickness, and the sense of over- 
whelming misery, told him what Dorothea was to him. He 
need no longer beat about the bush and tell himself that he 
was fond of her, when the dread of any ill befalling her had 
driven the blood to his heart and there was that look of de- 
spair on his face. 

“ I don^t believe it ! — I am not called upon to believe it I” 
he said, in the same dull, inward voice, as Buby made a flnal 
rush across the common and then darted in at the open gate 
of the Witchens, bringing out Mrs. Chudleigh an 1 seversd of 


LAUNCELOT FINDS THAT SKETCH 


393 


the household in alarm, lest a fresh accident had occurred, — 
and at the same moment Jack’s cob and Dorothea’s pretty 
little bay mare were led into the stable-yard. 


CHAPTER XL VIII. 

liAUNCELOT FINDS THAT SKETCH. 

Whose soft voice 
Should be the sweetest music to his ear, 

Awaking all the chords of harmony ; 

Whose pure transparent cheek when press’d to his 
Should calm the fever of his troubled thoughts, 

And win his spirit to those fields Elysian, 

The paradise which strong affection guards.” 

Bethune. 

When Launcelot threw down his reins and jumped from 
the phaeton he staggered slightly, but recovered himself in a 
moment. The faces in the glass porch bewildered him ; they 
seemed to corroborate Jemmy’s vague recital. It was true 
then, he told himself, — his beautiful little sweetheart was 
dead ! and for the second time his happiness seemed doomed. 

I don’t feel as though I could bear this !” he said again to 
himself, as he pushed through the excited little group, asking 
no questions. Indeed, he could not have spoken at that 
moment to save his life. 

Happily, Mrs. Chudleigh saw his expression, and grasped 
the truth. 

“Oh, my dear boy,” she exclaimed, “who has been fright- 
ening you ? There has been an accident, oh, yes, but things 
are not so bad, after all.” 

“She is not dead, then?” for his step-mother’s voice gave 
him power to speak. She would not have looked or spoken in 
that way if Jemmy Stokes had been correct. 

“Dead !” in a shocked tone. “ Oh, my poor Launce, how 
could any one have been so cruel? Come with me here a 
moment, and sit down. It has given you quite a turn, I can 
see. Jack and Dr. Higgenbotham are with Dorothea. She 
has opened her eyes. She was only stunned, and her head is 
rather badly cut.” 

“ I thought it was all over with her, — and with me too !” 
returned Launcelot, and the tears came into Mrs. Chudleigh’s 
eyes at his tone. 

“No, no, Launce, we hope that she is not badly injured 
after all. Now I must go back. Mrs. Fenwick and Sybil are 
there. I heard your wheels and came out because I did not 
wish you to be frightened, but it seems that I was too late. I 


894 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


will come back to you when Dr. Higgenbotham is gone,*' but 
Launcelot detained her. 

“Ma della, I must see Dorothea. 

** So you shall, dear, — the moment Dr. Higgenbotham has 
finished you shall see her, even if she cannot speak to you. 
Let me go, Launce, the mother will be wanted, and then he 
let her leave him. 

What a fool I was to believe it he thought, as he walked 
up and down the room to recover himself. “ It was the sud- 
denness of the blow staggered me ; but I have once in my life 
known what is called the bitterness of death, and I feared I 
was to experience it again and then he put his hand to his 
forehead, and was surprised to find how cold and damp it was. 
“ I am shaken all over,^^ he muttered ; “ I don^t remember 
ever feeling quite so bad before and then he poured out 
some water and drank it, and stood by the window inhaling 
the fresh evening air, and then he began to feel more like 
himself. ‘‘ I might have trusted God^s goodness,^* he thought, 
remorsefully. “ I need not have been so ready to believe the 
worst. 

But it seemed a long time before his step-mother came back 
to him. She came in looking flushed and anxious. 

“I am so sorry to have kept you so long in suspense, 
Launce,^^ she began, ‘‘but Dr. Higgenbotham has only this 
moment gone. He has attended to the cuts, and I am thank- 
ful to say there is no other injury ; but she is to be left vexy 
quiet, and you must not talk to her, for after such an acci 
dent^^ — but Mrs. Chudleigh prudently forbore to finish her 
speech, for Dr. Higgenbotham^s stringent orders had raised a 
margin of doubt in her own mind, but she need not make 
Launcelot a sharer in her own uneasiness. “ She is to be car- 
ried up to her room, and then Sybil and I will help her to 
bed, so you must only stay for a minute. 

“ Very well,” he returned, quite quietly, for he had himself 
in hand now, and he followed his step-mother into the draw- 
ing-room. “ Here is Launce, my darling !” he heard Jack say 
as they entered. 

Launcelot felt the old choking sensation come back when he 
saw Jack^s face ; its ruddy complexion had perceptibly paled, 
but he was bent on self-control. 

“ Dorothea,” he said, softly, kneeling down by the couch, 
and she opened her eyes at once and smiled at him. Her face 
was very white, and the long plaits of her fair hair had been 
uncoiled to allow of the wound being dressed, and lay on her 
dark riding-habit. 

Launcelot tried to smile back at her, but she saw at once 
how agitated he was. 

“ Please don^t look like that, Launcelot,” she whispered. 
“ Indeed I am not so very much hurt ; it was far worse for 
father having to see it all.” But the faintness of her voice 
alarmed Launcelot, and he remembered that he was not to 


LAUNCELOT FINDS THAT SKETCH 


395 


talk to her. “ You must not trouble about any of us,^^ he re- 
plied, gently; “you must think only of yourself, Dorothea, 
and about getting well. Now Dr. Higgenbotham says you are 
to be quiet, and I am going to follow his orders and carry you 
up-stairs. 

“ Oh, no,^^ she said, holding his hand as he would have lifted 
her, “ you must let father do that. He is so big and strong that 
he will not feel my weight.^^ But Launcelot persisted. 

“I am strong too,^^ he returned, and she knew by his tone 
that he meant to have his way. But as he laid her down on 
her own couch up-stairs one of the long plaits floated past him, 
and Dorothea's color rose a little as she saw him touch it with 
his lips. Their eyes met, and he kissed her almost passion- 
ately. 

“My little blessing,^^ he whispered, “ get well for me, for I 
cannot do without you and then he left her to his step- 
mother. 

“I think Launce loves me more than he used,^^ thought 
Dorothea as she laid her aching head contentedly on her pil- 
low, and the happy tears welled up to her eyes. What did 
her bruises and little pains signify when he had looked at her 
in that way, and he had called her “his little blessing”? 
“ What a dear name !” she thought, and indeed that was her 
one wish — to be his blessing. 

Dorothea lay quite happily looking out at the evening sky, 
while Launcelot and Jack strolled to the terrace. 

“ How did it happen. Jack?” he asked, as soon as he found 
himself alone with his friend. 

“ It was coming up Overton Rise,” returned Jack, hoarsely. 
“They had got the steam-roller at work. I told Dossie to 
keep Zoe quiet, for she seemed a bit fresh, and then, all at 
once, as I was speaking, the mare reared ana seemed to curvet 
across the road. And then she reared again, and overbalanced, 
and before I could get to them there was my little girl on the 
ground, and Zoe^s heels within an inch of her ! And the new 
flint stones were down, and Dr. Higgenbotham says that a 
quarter of an inch deeper, — but there, I can^t talk of it. I 
might have seen my little girl killed before my eyes, and for 
a minute or two I thought she was dead. I think those few 
minutes made an old man of me,” flnished Jack, with a break 
in his voice. 

“ Yes, and you brought her home?” 

“ There was a cab waiting at some house, and I got into that 
with Dossie. But I thought even that short drive would 
never come to an end, and she did not open her eyes once, 
but just lay across my knee, like — oh, confound it, I shall 
never get it out of my mind !” 

“ Let us talk of something else. Jack.” 

“ There was a bad scalp-wound, and another cut,” went on 
Jack, disregarding this ; “that is why we are to keep her so 
quiet. Della says I am only to wish her good-night. It is 


896 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


hard on you too, Launce ; I could see how cut up you were, 
but, please God, we shall have Dossie right again/^ 

“ Amen,^^ returned Launcelot ; and then again he made an 
ineffectual attempt to divert Jack^s thoughts. He had to give 
it up at last. Jack could not talk coherently on any subject ; 
his conversation consisted of snatches of painful recollection, 
with interjections of thankfulness, and nervous foars of future 
consequences. It was a relief to Launcelot to leave him and 
indulge in a solitary stroll across the common ; it was refresh- 
ing to be alone with his own thoughts, and he mused happily 
over his many mercies. “ At least I have learned something 
to-day ” he said to himself as he paced under the dark starry 
sky. I have learned how much I love Dorothea, and that 
she is necessary to my happiness. I would not change her 
for any woman,” and Launcelot knew in his heart that he 
spoke the truth. 

Jack and he had rather a trying time of it for the next 
week or two. Dorothea had had a severe shock, and the head 
wound gave grave cause for anxiety ; quiet and freedom from 
all excitement were absolutely necessary. 

Jack^s visits to the sick-room were severely curtailed, and 
all conversation strictly forbidden ; while Launcelot was not 
suffered to cross the threshold, and could only send written 
messages with the flowers that greeted Dorothea every morn- 
ing. 

Launcelot grumbled pretty freely whenever his step-mother 
gave him an opportunity of airing his grievances. 

“ Dr. Higgenbotham is an old woman !” he once said, quite 
angrily ; “ why did you not have in Maxwell ? I don^t believe 
he would have forbidden my visits ; you know yourself, Ma- 
della, how quiet I can be in a sick-room. Miss Thorpe said 
this morning that it was too bad to exclude me.” 

“It is hard, Launce,” replied his step-mother, sympatheti- 
cally. “ Yes, I know how quiet you can be, but the mere 
pleasure of seeing you would excite Dorothea. Whj% she 
flushes up every time she hears your footstep, and she detects 
it in a moment. You must be patient for a day or two longer, 
and, after that. Dr. Higgenbotham says there will be no risk ; 
she is really getting on very nicely,” and after this Launce- 
lot held his peace. 

But when at last he saw her, he owned that his step-mothei 
had been wise in her treatment. Dorothea looked very fragile 
and delicate ; she had not regained her usual coloring, and 
though she pronounced herself quite well, she was evidently 
far from strong. 

Launcelot found her in the “mother’s room,” in a big easy- 
chair by the open window. She wore a loose white tea-gown, 
and Sybil had brushed back her hair and tied it with a ribbon, 
and this gave her a childish look, but he thought he had never 
seen her look so sweet. 

“ Why, Dorothea, you remind me of the celebrated DoU’p 


LAUNCELOT FINDS THAT SKETCH 397 

dressmaker in her garden bower,” he said, sitting down beside 
her, and Dorothea smiled. 

I could not bear my hair dressed,” she said, quietly, ‘‘but 
the wound has healed now. Father says he likes it best 
because I remind him of the old Dossie, but it makes me look 
too young.” 

“You must not grow any older,” he returned, seriously; 
“to me you are just perfect.” And that day he made her a 
great many pretty speeches. 

But they did not have much conversation together, and 
more than a week passed before Dorothea came among them 
again and spoke of going back to the cottage. This gave 
Launcelot the opportunity he wanted. 

“Yes,” he said, “you may go back to the cottage if you 
think proper, but the question is how soon can you be ready 
for me ? Pauline took two months for her preparations, but I 
should think six weeks ample time.” And to his delight, 
she did not contradict this statement. 

“You must ask Aunt Della,” she said, shyly. “ If you are 
ready for me, Launcelot, I must not keep you waiting.” 
Then he thanked her very gratefully. 

But he was unusually thoughtful that morning, and Doro- 
thea looked at him wistfully once or twice as though she 
would question the reason of his gravity, and at last she said, 
gently,— 

“Am I disappointing you in anything, Launcelot? Is 
there anything else you wish me to do?” 

“No, dear,” he returned, quietly; “but it was not of our 
marriage I was thinking just then, but of something that was 
troubling me a little. Dorothea, you are very trusting ; you 
do not take advantage of your position to ask me awkward 
questions.” 

“ How do you mean?” she asked, and her lovely eyes had 
a shade of anxiety in them. “Is it about the past you are 
thinking?” 

“Yes,” he said, in a relieved tone. “ Most girls would ask 
a man questions, — if he has been in love before, and if any 
woman has ever been as dear to him, oh, and a hundred such 
questions. But you have never put one.” 

“Because I had no need,” she returned; but now the 
shadow lay deep in her eyes, “ I knew all about it, Launcelot, 
I was only a child,” — as he started and looked at her, — “ but 
I was thoughtful for my years, and I was so fond of you that 
the change in you could not escape me. No one told me any- 
thing, and I would have died sooner than speak to any one, 
but in my own little way I put things together.” 

“And you knew about Miss Bossiter?” in an incredulous 
voice. 

“ Yes, so you need not tell me. Child as I was, I knew you 
were suffering, and often I cried myself to sleep because my 
Mr. Lance was so unhappy. I don't think I ever reasoned 

84 


398 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 


the matter out in my mind, I was too young ; but I saw 
that there was a grievous mistake that you were trying to set 
right, and that you were in heavy trouble. Oh, liow I longed 
to comfort you ! I remember my nightly prayer for you 
then.” 

“Tell it to me,” he said, holding her hands. “It will do 
me good even now, Dorothea.” But she hesitated until he 
said again, “ Please tell it to me.” 

“ I used to say,” she whispered, “ ^ Oh, dear Lord, keep Mr. 
Lance as good as he is now, and make him a little less un- 
happy ; and when I grow up teach me how to be a comfort to 
him.^ ” 

“I think the prayer has been answered, my darling !” but 
she could see he was much affected. “ How little one is con- 
scious of one^s blessings ! I was in bitter trouble because I 
thought my hearths affection was wasted, mysteriously and 
absolutely wasted, — that I was battling alone, — and all the 
time a little child was praying beside me ;” and then he added 
softly, “ the little child that was to be my wife.” 

Dorothea was silent for a minute, and then she said, very 
quietly,— 

“It is strange how even then I felt as though I belonged 
to you. I obeyed you almost as I obeyed father. Launcelot, 
have you noticed how much older father has looked lately? 
I think his hard life has tried him, for he is not really old.” 

“ He is only four or five years older than your humble ser- 
vant,” returned Launcelot ; “ but there is no accounting for a 
man^s looks. Your father is big, and has a powerful &ame, 
but I am strong and wiry;” but he forbore to add that he 
thought, humanly speaking, that his own lease of life would 
be longer than Jack^s. 

Strange to say. Jack spoke a word on that very subject the 
same evening. They had been sitting with Dorothea until 
Mrs. Chudleigh had said that her patient had talked enough 
and must go to bed, and then Jack had suggested the terrace ; 
he had taken a fancy to smoke his pipe there. He liked the 
wide stretch of heath and the twinkling lights from the vil- 
lage, it gave him a sense of space and freedom. As they stood 
together in the faint glimmering light, for the moon had not 
yet risen, and they could hardly see each other^s faces, Launce- 
lot said, rather abruptly, — 

“ I hope our arrangements meet with your approval. Jack, — 
that you do not think that I have fixed too early a day for our 
marriage?” 

“No,” he said, slowly ; “ Dorothea will be nineteen. That 
was Pen^s age. I shall be willing to give her to you now. 1 
have had a happy year with my little girl, the happiest in my 
life, I think, except that first year when Pen came to me, — but 
we had our trouoles even then. I don^t know how it is, 
Launce, but a man can^t drag a woman down to poverty 
without suffering for it.” 


LAUNCELOT FINDS THAT SKETCH 399 

“And you will try to settle in comfortably at the Witch- 
ens?^^ 

“ Why, of course I shall be comfortable under any roof that 
shelters Dossie. You are a good fellow, Launce, and will 
make my little girl happy, I know, but sometimes I think 
even you who are going to be her husband do not know what 
Dossie is to me. I don^t seem to have a wish that is not con- 
nected with her. It has been so all along. 

“ I think I do know it, Jack.^^ 

“ Sometimes I think I ought to stop on alone at the cottag^ 
and not be in your way, but I know Dossie would not hear or 
it. But, Launce, I shan^t trouble either her or you long; 
there is a flaw in the machinery, and I know I shall never 
make an old man.^^ 

“ Nonsense, Jack ! you are scarcely forty-five. Why, you 
are in the prime of life ; you could marry again to-morrow. 
Many a woman would be glad to say yes to a fine fellow like 
you.^^ 

“I should never put another woman in Pen^s place, re- 
turned Jack, simply. “I know better than I used, and Dos- 
sie has taught me a lot of things, and I feel sure now that 
Pen and I shall meet again. I think a great deal about her, 
and I fancy to myself how pleased she will look when I tell 
her her place has never been taken. She always behaved in 
me, did Pen, and I don^t want to disappoint her.^^ 

“ Of course ; I see what you mean.^^ 

“ I don^t think it will be many years before I see her and 
the boys again. I am not speaking without book, and I know 
where the mischief lies.^^ And then he added a word or two, 
and Launcelot knew that he was speaking the truth, and 
that Jack would never make an old man. “That is why I 
wanted my little girl to myself for a bit,^^ went on Jack, 
cheerfully. “ I am quite content to take things as they come, 
and it won^t trouble me to leave Dossie, for I know she will 
be safe with you. Not that I need talk of dying yet, for Car- 
rick says I may live for years ; but when it comes Dossie will 
not be alone. 

“Jack, you do not wish her to know what you have just 
told me.^’ 

“No, indeed; that is between you and me. We are old 
comrades, Launce ; even Della must not know ; and as for 
my little sunbeam, I would not sadden her for worlds. I am 
not a bit down about it ; I was never afraid of death, but I 
should like to know things a little better, that was why I was 
glad to have Carrick^s opinion, and please God I shall see your 
children and hers before I lie down beside Pen.^^ 

“Poor old Jack!^^ thought Launcelot, as he recalled this 
conversation somewhat sorrowfully. “ Yet why do I say 
poor? are old age and the slow decay of one^s faculties such 
unmixed blessings that I should pity the strong man likely 
to be taken in his prime ? Jack is learning his lesson, I b^ 


400 


ONLY THE GOVERNESS, 


lieve ; he has begun late, and he is not an apt scholar, rathei 
slow and clumsy perhaps, but the Master is merciful. Jach 
will have time to get his task perfect, or else he will be set 
with the little ones to learn it more quickly under the eyes of 
the Divine Teacher, in the higher and better school. * In My 
Father^s house are many mansions what if there be one set 
apart for simple souls who have not rightly learned their lifers 
lesson, who in their dulness made mistakes and faltered and 
tried again, and then lost courage, for even their fellows 
thought that they had failed, but it may be the Master knew 
otherwise and called them up to Him for clearer light and 
teaching thought Launcelot. 

It was only last year that Launcelot Chudleigh found that 
sketch of Dossie as a child and carried it into his wife^s room. 
They had been married some months then. Jack was paint- 
ing in the window and Dorothea was sitting beside him work- 
ing,— she generally spent her mornings in her husband 
studio, but now and then Jack put in a plea for her company 
and was never refused, in spite of Launcelot^s grumbling. 

‘‘Look what I have found he exclaimed, flourishing the 
sketch before Dorothea's eyes. Jack came round to look at it, 
but soon went back to his work, for the companion sketch, 
worn and discolored, lay with all Dossiers letters in a drawer 
up-stairs. But Dorothea took it out of her husbaud^s hand 
and regarded it gravely. 

“ What a sad little child she said. “ Was I ever like that, 
Lance 

“You are very like it now,^^ he returned, looking at her 
critically, “but you have grown much prettier, Dorothea; 
you know I am always telling you so.^^ 

“I know you are a flatterer, Lance,^^ she replied, gently, 
and then they both looked at the sketch again. 

Dossiers large wistful eyes seemed to look back at them in a 
sort of wondering perplexity. 

“ Poor little thing, said Dorothea. “ That was when father 
went away. Oh, how unhappy I was !” 

“ But you had Lance even then, my darling, observed Jack, 

his tender voice. 

“ Yes, but he was not all that he is to me now,^^ she replied, 
and as she spoke she crept a little closer to her husband^s side 

Launcelot looked at her fondly. 

“ You are happier now than you were then, Dorothea?” and 
though Dorothea only smiled and said “ Yes,” in her tranquil 
way, Launcelot was perfectly satisfled with her answer. Hi a 
wife was not a woman of many words, but her smile waa 
sufldciently eloquent. 


THE END. 














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